Silent Night, Deadly Night

by Vicki Delany

  He mumbled something.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ shall I?” she said. “And I’ll venture to guess—”

  Diane Simmonds, I knew, never guessed.

  “—you’ve been going there a great deal for a long time. Probably when you’ve been on your numerous business trips, leaving your wife in charge of the company. But, as I said, that’s not my concern. Gambling is a dangerous pastime for a person in severe financial difficulties—collapsing company, expensive divorce, new family to support—to engage in.”

  “It helps me relax,” he mumbled.

  “I’m sure it does,” Simmonds said. “Another thing I’ve heard about Las Vegas is that members of organized crime circles have been known to gather there.”

  Eric said nothing.

  “When you were in Vegas, did you hire someone to come to Rudolph and kill your wife on your behalf, Mr. Vaughan?”

  He let out a bark of strangled laughter. “Detective, if I had that sort of money, I might have considered it. But I don’t. And I didn’t.”

  “Don’t treat me like a fool, Mr. Vaughan.” Simmonds bit off the words. “We might be a small town with a small police department, but I do have access to other law enforcement databases, you know. Plus, I have my share of personal contacts in the outside world. You’d be wise to remember that. If you didn’t hire someone to take care of it for you, did you kill Karla Vaughan yourself?”

  He lifted his head and stuck out his chin. “I did not kill Karla, and I did not hire anyone to do it for me.”

  “As tomorrow’s the holiday, and the morgue staff will be working reduced hours over the weekend, I’ll order the body to be released on Monday. Thank you for your time, Mr. Vaughan.”

  “What?”

  “You can go now.”

  “Oh.” He slowly got to his feet.

  Simmonds nodded at Dad, and he opened the door. Eric left.

  “Merry, a word, please,” the detective said.

  Dad shut the door again.

  “I put out a request for anyone who’d been on this street around six o’clock on Sunday evening, the time you said you saw someone in the driveway, to get in touch with us.”

  “I read that in the paper,” I said. “Did anyone call?”

  “Aside from the usual citizens wanting to be helpful, yet having absolutely nothing to contribute, yes. A man dropped into the station to tell me he and his wife were going to dinner at the house of friends. They hadn’t been there before, and he got confused in the streets. He couldn’t say for sure, but he thought he might have turned around in your parents’ driveway. He described this house, as seen from the driveway, fairly accurately. Can you tell me again what sort of vehicle you saw?”

  I shook my head. “It was nothing but an impression. I saw headlights, a shape backing out. It was a car, I’m pretty sure, meaning not a truck or an SUV or something like that. Dark colored, not big, not excessively tiny. A car.”

  “As vague as it is, that description does match the vehicle this man drives.”

  “Did you believe him? If he’d been leaving after dropping off poisoned egg salad, he isn’t exactly going to tell you that.”

  “I believe no one, so I had officers follow up. He’s lived in Rudolph for many years, has no criminal record, and appears to have never met either of your parents, other than at the usual community events. I can find no connection between him and the Vaughans.”

  I had to admit, that didn’t sound like a hired hitman to me. Then again, what does a hired hitman sound like? “Do you think Eric hired a contract killer to get rid of his wife?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “The manner of Karla’s death wouldn’t be their style. Sneaking into a house full of people to plant a bowl of tainted curried eggs?”

  “Maybe they wanted it to look like an accident?”

  Simmonds smiled at me. “The thing is, Merry, in no way does this look like an accident. You’d have to be a total fool not to know we’d immediately find the ground peanuts in the food and in Karla’s stomach. This wasn’t done by any professional killer. It was a crime of opportunity, by someone who either didn’t think things through or was prepared to take a heck of a chance. A total amateur, in other words.”

  I didn’t ask Detective Simmonds why she was telling me this. She’d ordered me not to get involved in the investigation. Was it possible she’d changed her mind and didn’t want to come right out and say so? I tried to look thoughtful and intelligent. The sort of person the police would come to when they were stumped.

  “Meaning it was done by someone who is in this house right now,” Dad said.

  Simmonds said nothing.

  “Not Eric,” I said, “if he was in Vegas.”

  “I’m not eliminating him yet,” Simmonds said. “Despite Homeland Security’s best efforts, it is possible to travel, even by air, under the radar.”

  “What about insurance?” Dad said. “Does he stand to get a payoff for Karla’s death?”

  “No. The company had a big policy on her when she worked there, but he canceled it when the divorce action began and she left the company.”

  “Some people in town are saying it was a mob hit to get at Eric,” I said.

  “You’re not saying that, I hope,” Simmonds said.

  “Just repeating the gossip, and only to you. In case you didn’t know.”

  “I know, but thank you for telling me anyway. The police in Northfield tell me they’ve never had reason to suspect anything in that business was not aboveboard. Eric’s gambling debts are far more than a man in his precarious financial position should have, but nothing the mob would consider more than peanuts.” She smiled. “Even if it was, and they wanted to send him a message, they would have known that bumping off a troublesome wife was doing the man a favor.”

  We showed Simmonds to the door and then went into the living room, where we found Mom and the quarrelsome quartet. Strained silence filled the air. They all looked up when we entered.

  “It seems as though Eric isn’t under arrest,” Ruth said. “He went upstairs without saying a word.”

  “He’s not,” Dad said.

  “You have porous walls,” Ruth said. “I couldn’t help but overhear some of what was said.”

  “It helped that you almost had your ear pressed up against the door,” Constance said.

  “Nothing wrong with wanting to know what’s going on,” Ruth said.

  Constance stood up. “Thanksgiving or not, I’ve had enough. I can’t get a commercial flight tomorrow, so I’m going to ask my father to arrange a private plane. I can’t bear to spend another day here.”

  “A private plane,” Genevieve said, “must be nice. I don’t suppose you’ll drop me in New York on the way.”

  “New York City is not on the way to Los Angeles,” Constance said.

  “So, make a small detour,” Genevieve said.

  “You can drive back with me,” Barbara said. “That’s assuming Detective Simmonds gives us permission to leave tomorrow.”

  “You’re all scurrying off home, are you?” Ruth said. “Taking your secrets with you?”

  “What does that mean?” Barbara asked.

  “Secrets. Secrets. We all have secrets. Don’t we?” Ruth glanced around the circle. Barbara, Constance, Genevieve, even Mom, shifted uncomfortably. “Some new, some old. Some serious, some not so. What do we do to protect our secrets? How far would we go? How far did one of us go?”

  “You’re talking absolute nonsense,” my mother said.

  “Secrets,” Ruth said, “are at the heart of any murder. Particularly one as personal as this one.”

  “Did you read that in one of your books, Ruth?” Constance sneered.

  A smile tugged at the edges of Ruth’s mouth. “As a matter of fact, Constance dear, I did. Uncover the secret, and you�
�ve found the killer.”

  “Spare me,” Barbara said.

  “Detective Simmonds might not have grounds to arrest Eric for killing Karla,” Mom said, “but as far as I’m concerned, he’s still a suspect. And a good one. Not to mention a cheating rat of a husband.” She turned to Dad. “I want him out of my house, Noel. Today.”

  “The hotels are full for the weekend,” he said.

  “Then he can sleep in a ditch for all I care,” Mom replied. “The rest of you can stay tonight, and then I don’t ever want to see any of you again.” She stood up and headed for the stairs.

  Chapter 19

  Mattie and I headed back into town. Simmonds had been right about one thing: the scent of snow was in the air. A snowfall at Thanksgiving was early but not unprecedented. I was looking forward to it. I enjoyed snow: the sheer beauty of it, the silence it laid over everything, the cold clear air against my face. In that, I was still like a small child.

  It helped that I didn’t have a driveway to shovel and I walked to work.

  I gave Alan a call. “Mom’s canceled Thanksgiving dinner because of all the trouble. Do you want to come to my place? You can take the day off, can’t you?” His siblings were going to their parents’ place in Florida for the holiday this year, but Alan had stayed behind, claiming the pressure of work.

  “I have a big job to finish for a particularly demanding customer,” he said.

  “I assume that means me. Come for dinner anyway. I have no idea what I’m going to make, but I’ll think of something.”

  “I’d like that,” he said. “Anyone joining us?”

  “I’ll ask Mom and Dad. If Simmonds doesn’t turn up anything new today, their guests are going to be allowed to leave town tomorrow. Which is just in time, before we have another murder on our hands. I can’t imagine either of my parents is in the mood to celebrate Thanksgiving, but we should try to mark the day.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said. “I have a lasagna in the freezer—want me to bring that?”

  “Did your mom make it?”

  “She’s worried I’ll starve over the winter, and last time she visited she left me with a full freezer.”

  Mrs. Anderson loved to cook. She didn’t have much of a chance these days to make huge family meals, now that her children had grown and her husband had to watch his weight. So she enjoyed making casseroles and baking up a storm at her son’s house. Not that Alan needed to be supplied. Mrs. Anderson had ensured that all her children, not just her daughters, could cook as well as she could. But no one, not even Alan, could make lasagna like she did.

  “That would be great,” I said. “I’ll head to the market after checking in at the shop to get salad things, and I’ll ask Vicky to put a couple of baguettes and something for dessert aside for me.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Uh . . . I love you, Merry.”

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  It was the first time the L-word had been said between us, and when I hung up, I felt positively giddy. Before I could forget what I said I’d do, I called Vicky. “Want to come for Thanksgiving dinner at my place? We’re having Mrs. Anderson’s lasagna.”

  “I never say no to lasagna. Thanks. Mark and I are going to my mom’s for brunch because he’s working dinner shift, and we’ll be having our festive meal on Friday, when he’s off.”

  “Great. Drinks at six. Dinner around seven.”

  “Can I bring anything?” she said, as I knew she would. Unlike Alan’s mother, my mom isn’t particularly fond of cooking, and she hadn’t been around much when I was growing up to teach me what little she knew. My dad’s idea of cooking was a step up from frozen TV dinners, but not by much—although he was good with a grill and a can opener.

  So as to contribute something to my own holiday feast, as well as a salad, I’d stock up at the wine store on my way home tonight.

  “Now that you mention it,” I said, “if you don’t mind. A couple of baguettes and a dessert would be nice.”

  “Sometimes I think you only invite me so I’ll bring food.”

  “That, and for the charm of your company.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. See you tomorrow.”

  I arrived at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures shortly before noon with a spring in my step. I liked the L-word. I liked hearing it, and I liked using it. Along with all the shops on Jingle Bell Lane, we were due to close at three, so people could get away to visit their families or prepare for guests.

  “It’s been a madhouse, Merry.” Jackie wiped invisible sweat from her brow when I came in after settling Mattie in the office for the afternoon. “An absolute madhouse. Good thing I can manage in here on my own.”

  The shop was busy, and plenty of stock had been removed from the shelves, but “madhouse” wasn’t the word I’d have chosen. Particularly not as when I came in, I’d found my assistant chatting to Kyle.

  “Hey, Merry,” Kyle said. “Didja hear ’bout my new job?”

  “I heard.”

  “I’m on my way now,” he said. “Next stop, the big time. I was telling Jackie all about it. Did you know they pay hundreds of thousands for pictures of famous people?”

  “Not just for pictures, Kyle. They have to be pictures of famous people doing something . . . uh . . . newsworthy.”

  He brushed off that triviality.

  “Did you buy yourself a camera?” I indicated the solid black Nikon hanging around his neck and the camera bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Belongs to the paper. I get to use it when I’m on assignment. I’m saving for one of my own.”

  “Are you on assignment now?”

  His eyes shifted toward the door. “Lots happening in Rudolph this weekend, Merry.”

  “It’s the start of the holiday season,” Jackie explained to me.

  “Speaking of the holiday season,” I said, “I’ll need you to wear your elf costume for the parade again this year. You might want to do up some of the . . . uh . . . more exposed bits.” Jackie had made a few unauthorized alterations to her costume. “It’s supposed to be cold next weekend.”

  Jackie and Kyle exchanged glances.

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re going to have a float?” she asked.

  “Of course I’m going to have a float. Why wouldn’t I? I’m going to dress Mattie as a mountain rescue dog, and that will be our theme this year.”

  “Kyle thought . . .”

  I looked at Kyle. “What did Kyle think?”

  “Nothing.” He glanced at his watch.

  “What’s going on here?” I said.

  He was saved from answering when a customer brought a selection of red and silver glass balls to the counter. “Can you wrap these carefully, please?” she said.

  “I’d be happy to.” Jackie reached under the shelf and pulled out a stack of tissue paper.

  Kyle checked his watch once again and then wandered off to have a look at the Santa and his reindeer dolls.

  The bells over the door tinkled cheerfully and none other than Wayne Fitzroy came in. He threw me a huge smile and crossed the floor in confident strides. “Merry! So nice to see you again.” He thrust out his hand, and I took it in mine. His grip was firm, not too strong, not too light, and not clammy. He smiled into my eyes and held my hand a moment too long. I pulled it away.

  “I’m pleased to find you here, Merry. I’ve been hearing good things about Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. A Rudolph institution, folks say.”

  “I’ve only had the shop for a year. This will be my second holiday season.”

  “Doesn’t take long to create an institution, does it?” he said. He then turned the force of his charm onto my assistant. “And the lovely Jackie O’Reilly.”

  Jackie beamed. “Hi, Mr. Fitzroy.”

  “Call me Wayne, please. ‘Mr. Fitzroy’ makes me sound so old.” He wink
ed at her.

  Jackie giggled. I struggled hard not to roll my eyes.

  Wayne took in my shop in a single glance. “Lookin’ good, Merry. Lookin’ good. And I don’t mean just you and your assistant.” Another giggle from Jackie. Another effort not to eye roll from me. I’ve worked in fashion and design in New York City: I know false charm when I see it.

  “It’s easy to see you’re pumped and ready for the holiday season,” Wayne said. “Here, allow me to get that for you, madam.” He rushed to the door and held it for the customer. He gave her a little bow, and she favored him with a big smile.

  Kyle took the lens cap off his camera. “Kyle Lambert, Rudolph Gazette. Can I take a picture, Mr. Fitzroy? I’m with the Gazette. That’s a newspaper.”

  “A picture. What would you want a picture of an old man like me for?” Fitzroy flashed a mouthful of white teeth.

  “We like to feature pictures of people enjoying all that our town has to offer at Christmastime,” Kyle said as if by rote. In fact, it was by rote. I’d heard Sue-Anne Morrow say those exact words to Russ Durham many times.

  “Perhaps a shot with Merry and Jackie? In front of the Christmas tree?” Kyle suggested.

  Jackie almost leapt over the sales counter in her eagerness to get to the tree. She was wearing an unusually short skirt today, and she’d undone the top two buttons of her blouse. I’d never seen those ankle boots with the four-inch heels before. They were not shoes in which a shop clerk would normally want to spend her day.

  This whole thing was a total setup.

  “I’m not . . .” I protested, but to no avail. Jackie grabbed my arm and pulled me after her. The customers stood back, smiling, and watched.

  “You don’t want me in the picture,” Wayne said. “Why not have one of these lovely ladies enjoying a day of shopping?” He gestured to two women clutching their laden store bags.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” one of them said as she practically knocked her friend out of the way to be first.

  “Please, Wayne,” Jackie said. “It’ll be great.” She playfully plucked at his sleeve.