by Vicki Delany
She cried for a long time. Eventually, she let out a deep breath, and her whole body shuddered. She lifted her head and stared at me through puffy red eyes. She looked far older than her years. “I can’t really say. I see pretty things, and I want them, but I can’t afford them. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’ve taken something until I’m out on the street and my bag feels heavy. I can’t land roles anymore. Work’s dried up, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. Last week, I was turned down for a detergent commercial because they said I was too old. Can you imagine how I felt, being told I’m too old to play a middle-American housewife? I need a smoke.”
“Not in the house.” The slightest whiff of a cigarette would have Mom charging in here as though the place were on fire.
“There’s no callback coming, like I told the others. I haven’t gotten my foot in a door for months.” She sobbed. “I’m washed up. Finished. And I never even began. What else have I got in life? I deserve a few nice trinkets now and again.”
“Not if they belong to me,” I said, but she didn’t hear.
“Look at Constance. She has everything she wants. Anything she asks for, her father gives it to her. Look at Barbara with her law office and her fancy airs about the perils of consumerism.”
“Your friends aren’t all well-off. Ruth isn’t. Karla wasn’t.”
“Even your mother.” Genevieve waved her arms to take in the modern kitchen, the big house. “She was a major star. She made it, and she didn’t even try to keep it. She gave it up and buried herself here. It could have been me. It should have been me!”
“My mother didn’t exactly bury herself. She simply chose a new path. She worked hard for everything she got.”
“So did I! I can’t help getting old. It’s all so unfair.”
All of this had nothing whatsoever to do with shoplifting—except that it seemed to be Genevieve’s excuse—or with the more important matter on my mind. “Did you kill Karla,” I asked, “because she threatened to expose you to the others?”
She looked genuinely startled. “What? Kill Karla? No.”
“This group wouldn’t have been at all understanding of your situation, would they? Petty thieving. A police record. Constance would have laughed at you. Ruth and Karla would have pitied you. You couldn’t have that, could you? Particularly not pity from Karla, whose husband left her for a woman half her age. So you killed her.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
She stood up. “I didn’t know Karla’s husband dumped her until last night. Okay, I’ve confessed to taking your cheap junk. I’ve said I’ll give it back, and I will. I didn’t kill Karla, and you can’t make me say I did.”
I believed her. Maybe she was a better actress than I gave her credit for. Maybe she’d pretended to be a bad actor at the shoplifting accusation to deflect questions about the murder, but I didn’t think so. I got up and rummaged under the kitchen sink. I pulled out a shopping bag and handed it to her. “Put the things you stole in here, and I’ll return them to the owners, telling them to ask no questions. But don’t take anything else. Like I said, this is a close town. I’ll hear about it, and then I will call the police.”
“Meaning you haven’t called them yet.”
No need to say I did call, but Detective Simmonds didn’t have time to hear me out. I shook my head. “You need help, Genevieve. When you get home, why don’t you talk to someone?”
“Talk isn’t going to take away these wrinkles on my face or tighten up the sagging skin under my arms.”
“No, but it might make you not so bitter about it.”
She left the kitchen.
I spoke to Mattie. “I think that went well, don’t you? One problem down, now on to the next.”
Chapter 18
The door to Dad’s study was open, but he wasn’t there. I followed the sound of the TV down the hall to what Mom grandly called the conservatory. This room overlooked the backyard, facing south, and is where Mom kept outdoor plants too fragile for a New York winter: dwarf palm trees, flowering hibiscus, geraniums, and begonias, and a myriad of tumbling ivy and stretching branches. Dad was sitting in an armchair, the wide leaves of a palm looming over his head, reading the New York Times. A man I didn’t recognize had taken ownership of the La-Z-Boy that offered the best view of the TV. A golf game was playing, the announcer speaking in hushed tones, the player lining up his shot.
Dad put his paper away when I came in. “Good morning, honeybunch. This is early for a visit, isn’t it?”
I bent over and kissed his fuzzy cheek. “Never too early to see you, Dad.”
The La-Z-Boy straightened with a clunk, and its occupant politely got to his feet.
“Eric,” Dad said, “this is my daughter Merry.”
Eric was a short, round man, at about five foot eight and well over two hundred and fifty pounds, most of the excess weight trapped in his basketball-sized belly. His nose was a network of thin red lines, and lengths of gray hair had been allowed to grow too long, in a failed attempt to cover the shiny bare patch at the top of his head.
Not yet ten o’clock, but a beer bottle sat on the table beside him.
He took a step toward me and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
I shook. His grip was firm, but not too strong.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Yeah. Thanks. Karla and I were . . . well, we weren’t getting on so well this last little while, but it’s still a shock. Despite it all, we had been married for a long time.”
I turned to my dad. “Have you got a minute?”
He put the paper aside. “Shall I assume you saw this morning’s Gazette?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s talk in the study.”
Eric dropped back into his seat as Dad and I left the room.
“How’s it going?” I jerked my head toward the sound of polite clapping coming from the TV. “With him, I mean?”
“Aside from the fact that I have better things to do than watch golf and drink beer at ten in the morning, fine. Actually, come to think of it, I have nothing better to do this morning than watch golf and drink beer.” The mug next to Dad’s seat, I’d noticed, had contained coffee.
“Which is why I’m here,” I said. “What’s our defense against Wayne Fitzroy? Russ said he asked you to comment and you declined. Is that part of your strategy?”
“My strategy? Our defense? We have none, honeybunch. Everything the man said was true. A woman did die, under suspicious circumstances, here in our house. It’s up to Sue-Anne and the town council to decide if they want to make something out of it.”
“You can’t be serious, Dad. Never mind the personal insinuations against you and Mom, the job of Rudolph’s Santa Claus is far too important to leave to some jumped-up outsider wanting to make trouble.”
“We don’t know that he is wanting to make trouble.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Never forget, Merry, ‘it is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts.’” My dad could always be counted on to have a Sherlock Holmes quote at the ready.
“I’m not theorizing; I’m telling you what I’ve heard.”
“What you’ve heard are not facts. All I know, and all you know, is what Mable D’Angelo and her cohort of busybodies have to say about him. They are not a reliable source.”
“I’ll agree with that,” I said, “but the way he’s gone about this is underhanded, don’t you think? Talking to the newspaper first?”
“Your mother and I discussed it last night. We decided not to fight it. It’s not worth the effort.”
I was stunned. “Not worth the effort! For Santa Claus in Rudolph! The parade is not much more than a week away.”
“I called Sue-Anne and left a message, saying if she wanted to talk, I’m available. I’
m leaving it at that. The ball is in her court.”
“You could have at least smiled for the newspaper. You look like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come in that picture. No one’s going to want to put their child on that knee.”
“I wasn’t aware Kyle Lambert had started working for the paper.”
“He didn’t identify himself?”
“No. He popped out from behind a bush and asked me if it was true Aline had murdered her friend. Next thing I knew, a bulb had gone off in my face.”
“No wonder you were scowling.”
“A reaction which, I assume, was his intent,” Dad said.
“I might have a word with Russ Durham about proper journalistic ethics and behavior.”
“You do that, honeybunch. Otherwise, the subject is closed. I have a house full of unwanted guests, a wife getting angrier by the minute, the police popping around at all hours of the day and night.” He shook his head. “And now I’m expected to talk sports over dinner.”
I decided this wouldn’t be a good time to tell him about Genevieve and the shoplifting.
“By the way, Eric’s new lover has left him,” Dad said. “He told her that at his age he couldn’t be expected to change diapers or babysit. He mentioned that to me last night after dinner, when he was into his third glass of my brandy, expecting me to be on his side. Which, I’ll assure you, I am not. I’m not supposed to share that information with Karla’s friends.”
I shook my head. “Everyone in this house is keeping secrets.”
Dad grinned at me. “Not me. I’m an open book.”
“And I’m glad of it.”
“Speaking of last night’s dinner. Why did you want me to take them out?”
“No reason.”
He gave me that look. The Dad look.
“It’s probably better you don’t know,” I said.
“Better I don’t know you searched the guest rooms?”
“How’d you—” Too late, I snapped my mouth shut. I’d stepped neatly into the trap.
“I can think of no other reason you’d want us all out of the house at a particular time. I considered advising you against it. If you’re searching for clues—almost certainly with the assistance of Vicky—like some sort of adult Nancy Drew and her friends, you’d be advised to leave that to Diane rather than risk interfering with evidence that can be used in court.”
“What we were after had nothing to do with the killing of Karla,” I said.
“Everything in this house, right now, has to do with the killing of Karla.”
“Why didn’t you stop us . . . I mean me . . . then?”
My dad smiled at me. “Because I trust you to keep your head on your shoulders and do the right thing.”
I swallowed around a substantial lump in my throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
“But,” he continued, “as for the Santa Claus business, I do not trust you one bit. I don’t want you getting involved. And for goodness’ sake, don’t talk it over with Vicky. The two of you will then come up with some plan to save Christmas in Rudolph.”
“Would we do that?”
He did not bother to reply.
The doorbell sounded. Dad groaned. “It’s early for visitors. This can’t be anything good.”
I followed him to the front door. As he’d said: nothing good. Detective Simmonds stood there. She was not smiling. At least she’d come alone, in her own car. No need to attract more attention from the neighbors or get Mrs. D’Angelo’s network buzzing. “Good morning, Noel, Merry,” she said.
“Morning, Diane,” Dad said.
“I thought you’d want to know that moments ago the chief announced to the press that the death of Karla Vaughan is now an official murder investigation.”
Dad’s face tightened. We knew Karla had been murdered. It was still a shock to hear it expressed so plainly.
“I would like to speak to Mr. Vaughan,” she said. “Is he in?”
Dad stepped back and waved her inside. “Merry, would you tell Eric someone is here to see him?”
“Sure.” I headed down the hall as Simmonds said, “Snow’s in the air.”
“That’ll help people get in the mood for the Christmas season,” Dad replied.
Eric Vaughan was comfortably reclined in the La-Z-Boy, finishing the last of the beer. The players and their caddies were carefully studying the grass, while the announcer continued to speak in hushed tones.
“Detective Simmonds is here,” I said. “She wants to talk to you.”
With a groan Eric straightened the chair and put the bottle onto the table. “One more time.”
When we arrived in the front hall, Mom had joined Dad. Constance and Ruth stood on the stairs, watching.
Mom was dressed in cream wool pants and a chocolate brown cashmere sweater, her hair washed and styled, her casual at-home makeup applied. She had not been in bed, as Genevieve had thought; she just hadn’t wanted to come down.
I didn’t blame her.
“A word, Mr. Vaughan,” Simmonds said.
“You can use my study,” Dad said.
“Do you know how difficult it’s going to be to get a flight tonight or on Thanksgiving Day itself?” Constance said. “Anything available at the last minute is going to cost a fortune. I’m going to send the bill to your boss and tell him to take it out of your pay.”
Simmonds looked at her. “You are welcome to stay in Rudolph until next week, Mrs. Westerton, if that would be more convenient for your travel arrangements.”
I thought Mom might choke.
“I have no intention of remaining here one minute longer than I have to,” Constance said.
“Your decision,” Simmonds replied. She led the way to the study, and Eric followed along behind. Dad followed, because it’s his study, and I followed because I’m the curious sort.
I expected Dad and I would be asked to leave, but Simmonds said nothing. So Dad shut the door, with us inside.
“Have a seat, Mr. Vaughan,” the detective said.
Eric settled himself slowly into a chair. Dad and I stood against the wall, trying to look like part of the furniture. Simmonds took the chair behind the desk. She studied Eric’s face for a long time. No one said anything. “I had a look at your divorce papers,” she said at last.
“That must have made for interesting reading.” The room wasn’t warm, but beads of sweat began to appear on Eric’s forehead.
“Very interesting. You and Karla have been battling it out for more than two years now. Your lawyers’ fees must be exorbitant.”
“It’s ruining me,” he said.
Simmonds looked at Dad and me. “Karla wanted one half of the worth of the business as part of the divorce settlement, on the grounds that she had been a full partner in the company since its founding.”
“She was a part-time bookkeeper,” Eric said. “I brought her in to give her something to do when the kids were young.”
“So you claim. But employees and former employees have stated that she not only worked there full-time, she often seemed to be the one in charge. Most noticeably when you were, as they say, unavailable.”
“I traveled a lot. It’s what businessmen do. Making contacts, sourcing suppliers.” He glanced over his shoulder at Dad. “You were in business, Noel. Tell this woman what it’s like.”
Dad shook his head.
“Mr. Vaughan,” Simmonds said, “I have no interest whatsoever in the details of your divorce battle or what might or might not be your case. What I am interested in, is that Karla wanted money equal to one half of the value of the business, and you’ve been fighting her over that for two years. Two years in which the value of your company has steadily declined, which some say is because Mrs. Vaughan was no longer around to run it.”
“Some say. You can’t take the word of that miserable bunc
h in the back office. They were always on Karla’s side. She paid them off, I bet.”
“Not my concern,” Simmonds said. “What is my concern is that the legal action was destroying you and your company. Not to mention you appear to have thought it a good idea to start a new family, with all the expense that entails.”
“That wasn’t my idea.” Eric’s head dropped. “Besides, that . . . relationship’s over.”
Simmonds raised one eyebrow. “Is it? Meaning more legal fees, I presume.”
She let his silence fill the room.
“The death of Karla Vaughan has worked out rather well for you, hasn’t it, Eric?” Simmonds said at last.
“I don’t look at it that way,” he said.
“Why did you come here? To Rudolph? Why did you tell Karla’s friends you wanted to be the one to bring her body home?”
He dropped back into his chair. “My son asked me to come. He said it was the least I could do for his mother. His wife’s expecting any day now, and he didn’t want to leave her. My daughter started a new job a couple of weeks ago and can’t get away.” He stared intently at his hands. “My children and I are . . . not close. I thought it the least I could do for them.”
“Where were you on Sunday evening?”
“I told you that yesterday.”
“I’m asking again. You must be aware that airlines keep passenger data these days.”
I glanced at Dad. He lifted his bushy white eyebrows. Wherever Eric was on Sunday, the day of the fateful potluck, Simmonds knew. And she knew it wasn’t what he’d originally told her.
Eric twisted his hands together. “Vegas,” he mumbled.
“Where?”
He lifted his head and spat out the words. “Las Vegas. It’s in Nevada.”
“So I’ve heard,” Simmonds said. “Are you a regular visitor to Las Vegas?”
“A man needs some relaxation,” Eric muttered.
“The primary activity, I’ve also heard, in Las Vegas is gambling. Do you gamble when you’re there, Mr. Vaughan?”
