As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles_Food Lovers' Village Mystery

by Leslie Budewitz

  He gathered the tails of his black wool coat and sat, a small notebook in hand. The coat gave off a whiff of cigarette smoke, and I thought I’d guessed right about the candy canes. No wonder he was so grumpy.

  “I understand you witnessed an altercation between the victim, Ms. Merrily Thornton, and her parents.”

  Anyone could have told him that—it had happened in public. But I doubted the too-proud Thorntons had confessed to a street fight with their daughter. “Just her mother. And I don’t know that I’d call it an altercation. That’s two-way. This was all Taya. Merrily stood there and took it.” As though she’d heard it before. And maybe she had, in the two months that she’d been back in Jewel Bay. Saturday’s incident might not have been the first shaming.

  I told him what I’d seen and heard.

  “What did Mrs. Thornton tell your mother when they went inside the antique shop?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “Oh, believe me, I will.” He made a quick note. “No one else was present?”

  “Elves were everywhere,” I said, then saw his puzzled expression. “Decorating Day in the village is a big deal. Most crews were finished, but people were chatting, admiring the decorations, cleaning up. The way Taya shouted—they couldn’t help notice. Sally …”

  “Sally?” he prompted. He shifted wrong, and the wheeled stool nearly scooted out from under him.

  “Sally Grimes,” I said. “She owns the kids’ shop across the street. She heard it all. You know Merrily pled guilty to theft ages ago. The business she stole from belonged to Sally. Her husband ran it, and Merrily worked for him. Merrily got caught up in his grand schemes to get rich off his wife, then dump her.”

  Even the basic facts were ugly. I had a hard time believing the Merrily I’d met had done such a thing. But she’d been a kid, and kids do dumb things. If they’re lucky, they learn from it.

  “Pretty gutsy, coming back here,” he said.

  “She did her time. She wanted to come home.” My throat tightened and my vision blurred. “She shouldn’t have had to pay for a twenty-year-old mistake with her life.”

  “You are surprisingly naive, given your reputation for interfering in criminal investigations. Such as stopping at the veterinary clinic to inform Dr. Holly Muir of her sister’s death.”

  “Sorry.” I deserved his criticism, and I knew it.

  “Hmmph. But then, I see that you’re the trusting type,” he said. I cocked my head in a question, and he continued. “Downstairs just now. You let your sales clerk close up. Do you know she didn’t help herself to cash?”

  “I leave her and my other employee alone with cash all day. We’ve never had a problem.”

  Bello gave me a long, studied look. “Then you’ve been lucky. So far. But I understand. You and the victim were friends. You’re defending her.”

  “I liked her. I thought she needed a friend. And I can’t fathom parents disowning their child.”

  “Looks like they were right, though,” he said.

  I pursed my lips. “I don’t believe she was stealing from the Building Supply. Greg gave her a second chance. Why throw that over for a few hundred dollars?”

  “She fits the profile to a T. Middle-aged woman in a trusted position with no history of violent crime. She knew how to steal money while hiding her tracks. Embezzlement is a habitual crime.”

  Was thirty-eight middle-aged? I shuddered. Five years to go, then. Bello couldn’t be much more than forty himself.

  Despite my decade in the grocery business, I’d never been directly involved with an embezzlement case. But as I mentally ran through the stories I’d heard, I realized he might be right. They did all seem to follow a pattern. Except … I frowned.

  “Merrily was only eighteen or nineteen back then. And she was after-school office help. That doesn’t fit the pattern.” Nor did Cliff Grimes.

  “Proves she had a larcenous nature,” Bello said.

  Was that a variation on the exception that proves the rule? I never had understood that idea.

  “Tell me about your conversation with Mr. Taylor,” he said.

  “Mr.—oh, Greg. He called, told me he’d found her, and asked me to come to the schoolhouse.” The chair squeaked as I leaned back. Bello’s cheek twitched, and I sat up. “Wait. You don’t think he killed her. That’s impossible. Greg would never—”

  He tilted his head and I stopped. He did suspect Greg.

  “Maybe he met her at the schoolhouse, last night, before the snow fell,” he said. “Lured her. Confronted her about the theft. He admitted he felt betrayed and angry. How better to cover his tracks than to call a friend who would never doubt him?”

  “You think he called me to provide cover.” A sour taste dripped down the back of my throat, and I didn’t admit I’d had the same thought. “But if she stole from him, why would she meet him at such a private place? Especially on her parents’ property, after the way they treated her?”

  “Maybe he followed her there. We have only his word that he hadn’t seen her since Friday afternoon when he left work. Or it might have been the other way around. Maybe she lured him. Maybe he was the intended victim.”

  “Now you’re guessing.” As was I. “Is Greg under arrest?”

  “Not yet,” Detective Bello said, and his words sounded like a warning. To watch my step, or to keep my distance from his chief suspect?

  Seven

  After Bello left, I locked the front door and grabbed a bottle of Pellegrino. The tiny white Christmas lights in the windows gave the shop a ghostly twinkle. Outside, the streets were nearly empty, the skies dark. Only two weeks to Solstice and the return of the light.

  The cool fizzy water eased the ache in my throat. Oliver Bello mixed a sort of Cuban machismo with cop swagger and short man syndrome. And he was a know-it-all. I’d been accused of that myself a time or two. Nothing pee-ohs a know-it-all like seeing ourselves in someone else. But he must be a good cop and a decent guy, if Ike Hoover had hired him and Kim approved.

  Northwest Montana did seem like a curious place for a Miami cop to land, though. Especially one without snow boots.

  I took another swig. Much as I didn’t want to believe Merrily was a two-time thief, the evidence did point that way. But Greg Taylor a killer? I didn’t know what had happened with the deposit or in the schoolhouse, but I couldn’t believe Greg had misjudged Merrily so badly or been driven to violence. Despite Bello’s taunt, I was not naive. Greg’s explanation that he thought Merrily was in trouble and didn’t think she’d run off with a few hundred dollars made sense.

  Especially with more cash, and those precious mementos, left behind.

  The old brass cash register on our front counter is mainly for show, though I adored playing with it as a kid. These days we use an iPad to track sales and process credit cards, and keep our cash and checks in a vintage metal sewing kit. As I lifted the metal lid, I couldn’t help but think of the cigar box in Merrily’s desk drawer.

  Bello’s gratuitous comments about my trusting nature and being lucky “so far” had stung, but he had a point. Even when cash on hand is limited, every business needs systems to protect itself. Internal losses—shrinkage, in retail terms—are a huge problem, and they can cripple or kill a small operation. My mother had limped along without much in the way of systems, and when I took over, I changed some of that. But not when it came to cash handling.

  I counted out the cash on the front counter, each denomination a small pile, then pulled out what we needed to stock the till in the morning.

  A pounding on the glass startled me. I bustled around the counter and opened the door.

  “Wendy, what are you doing out there? It’s freezing.”

  She shivered in her thin white chef’s coat. “I was hoping you’d be here. That new detective just questioned me.”

  I led her to the kitchen counter and poured her a steaming mug of spicy chai. “Slow down and tell me about it.”

  “I came in to help Max pre
p for a catering job tonight. Christmas party. My mother has the baby.” Shoulders hunched, she cradled the mug close to her chest, then raised her eyes to mine. “Detective Bello thinks my brother is a killer. They held him all afternoon, though he’s home now.”

  “At this point, the detective has to suspect everyone. And frankly, Greg is behaving oddly. Why did he go out to the schoolhouse?”

  “To look for Merrily. Oh.” Wendy was distraught, and a tad sleep-deprived, but now she understood. “No, Erin. I don’t believe it. You know what happens when someone is suspected unfairly. First the theft, then talk about murder? Even when the real killer is found, people will be convinced he was hiding something. And the Building Supply will be hit hard.”

  I did know. Barely eighteen months ago, the Merc’s former manager turned up dead in Back Street, not far from our gate. Fingers pointed at my mother, and our business suffered. My whole family suffered.

  We’d seen the effects of change in Jewel Bay before and fought back. Decades ago, when a bigger, shinier grocery store went in up on the highway, Murphy’s Mercantile became a relic. When the hardware store moved out to join it, expanding into a full-scale building supply, the original townsite by the bay nearly became obsolete. The locals were stubborn and creative, though, and over time, with persistence and new blood, they reinvented downtown into “Jewel Bay, the Food Lovers’ Village.” Restaurants, retail shops, and galleries had made the village a destination with its own identity.

  And the Merc was its heart and stomach.

  But major losses aren’t easy to recover from. And a town without a hardware store quickly falls apart.

  “You’ve got to do something,” Wendy said, setting her mug down with a thunk. “Talk to Kim. Get her to see Bello’s wrong and call him off.”

  “Listen, Wendy, I can’t do that. She needs to let him do his job. And so do we.” Kim knows I’ve got good instincts and that I’ve learned a few things about bad guys—and gals. But she never hesitates to remind me I’m not a cop.

  “Then you have to investigate.” Wendy reached across the counter, grabbing my hands in hers. “This is my brother. You know him. You know he couldn’t kill anyone.”

  I did know him. And I knew that we can’t always be as certain as we’d like about what other people would and wouldn’t do. I had a hunch Greg hadn’t told me everything. I squeezed Wendy’s hands and released them.

  “Greg said he and Merrily were friends in high school, that they hung out together. That’s why he knew where to find her. But there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

  Wendy looked away and rose. “Oh, Erin,” she said, ready to cry. “Why is helping people so complicated?” She tried the door, but the lock sticks sometimes. I reached past her to fiddle with it, and as it snicked open, I saw a battle in my friend’s eyes.

  Fear, or worry? A desire to protect—but whom?

  Criminy. What was she afraid to tell me? Afraid it would hurt Greg, not help him?

  Wendy stopped in the doorway and turned, her brown eyes boring into mine. “Please, Erin. You helped Nick when they suspected him. I don’t know how to help Greg. But you do.”

  I swallowed hard. It was one thing to believe I could be useful, another to make a promise. “Let me think about it.”

  She gave a quick nod and was gone. Back behind the counter, I slid the day’s cash and checks into the bank bag, grabbed the cash box and iPad, and headed upstairs. Greg had no reason to kill Merrily before he discovered the theft this morning, and it seemed likely that she’d been in the schoolhouse for hours—long enough for the snow to have covered any other tracks.

  But Bello had suggested otherwise. Why? What did he know about Greg Taylor and his weekend whereabouts that I didn’t? What did Wendy know? Did it add up to an alibi—or the lack of one?

  In the office, I unlocked the wall safe my grandfather had installed and tucked the goods inside. Glanced at the time. I had an appointment of my own before heading home. Home, to whatever news Adam hadn’t wanted to share on the phone. I grabbed my coat and my red boots, then reached for my tote, a soft, handmade leather model I’d bought last summer to mark a new phase in my life. A second chance, of sorts.

  Which reminded me of what Greg had said about second chances. I had to admit, I felt a twinge of guilt mixed with relief. Had Lou Mary not come along when she had and proven to be exactly what the Merc needed, I could have hired Merrily and found myself in a similar position.

  But for the grace of God, and all that.

  A few minutes later, I tugged the Merc’s front door shut behind me and spotted a familiar figure heading for Red’s Bar.

  “Hey, Kim.” I caught up with her just before she shut Red’s door. Still in her work clothes.

  “Erin—hi. I didn’t expect to see you.” Her voice hit a higher pitch than usual, and she glanced around the bar quickly. I was making all my old friends nervous today.

  “My home away from home,” I said. Good food, good beer, right next door. Plus my mother owns the building. We’d stopped in the middle of the room, enveloped in a beery warmth. “Do you have a sec?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, and I took that as a yes.

  “I know you’ve assigned Merrily’s death to Bello, but can you keep a close eye on him? Please? It’s like he thinks the victim’s scum and the killer’s obvious, so that’s the end of it.”

  “I assure you, Detective Bello will investigate thoroughly. There will be no rush to judgment.”

  Maybe not, but I wasn’t convinced.

  She tilted her head, studying me. “Why do you care so much, Erin? You barely knew Merrily.”

  I blew out my cheeks. “I’m not sure. It’s almost as if there’s no one to mourn for her. Her parents are so wrapped up in their brand of guilt and shame, and her sister wants to protect her relationship with them. That leaves Merrily’s daughter, who’s just a kid—”

  “A daughter? Walt and Taya didn’t mention her.” Her brow furrowed. “Dang, that’s messed up.”

  “All I know is she lives in Jesse Hall at UM. I don’t even know her last name. Ashley something.”

  “We’ll find her,” Kim said. “And don’t worry. Bello’s only been here four months, but he knows the job. He helped me investigate a bar shooting in the West Valley, and the negligent homicide case from that boat crash last summer. I have my own cases, but he’ll keep me in the loop.”

  “Oh, I heard about that. The ring of Santa Claus suit thieves. Has everybody lost their Christmas spirit?”

  She smiled without humor.

  I turned serious. “Bello seems to think Greg Taylor called me because he wanted to divert suspicion from himself. And I don’t want to be played. But he did seem honestly shocked and upset. Not like a killer.”

  Anyone else might have asked how I knew so much about the reactions of a killer. Kim didn’t need to.

  “But if he is—if he did kill her,” I continued, “then we have a double tragedy that’s going to hurt a lot of people.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I can’t promise there won’t be collateral damage, but remember, I love this town, too.”

  And that was as much as I could ask of her. “Thanks. Hey, I gotta run, but one more question. About Bello. How’d he get here?”

  “Came up on vacation and loved it. When he got divorced, he wanted a change, and we had an opening.”

  Leaving the past behind, lighting out for the territories. A story as old as Jewel Bay itself.

  Eight

  Now I remember why I swore I’d never make another wedding gown,” Kathy Jensen said, though with her lips clamped over straight pins, decoding her muttering took some work.

  “This isn’t exactly a gown,” I said. Dragonfly Dry Goods, her quilt and fabric shop at the north end of the village, had closed for the day, but we were in the workroom for my final fitting.

  She grunted. “Close enough. Turn.”

  I obeyed, a tad disconcerted by standing on a low table facing
a mirror. The resulting image reminded me of the popular book covers showing headless women in tight-fitting dresses, from the cleavage down. My silky white-on-white brocade brushed the top of my red cowboy boots, and swirled when I twirled.

  “Two weddings in one family in one year. What did I do wrong?” she said, her ash-blond hair so heavy it barely moved as she inspected me.

  For my mother’s wedding in the orchard last summer, Kathy had designed a stunning-but-understated sage green lace number in what she and Fresca called tea-length. I’d had to make a few concessions to the weather, choosing a wide sweetheart neckline and ballet sleeves, just below the elbow. A local woman was knitting a red angora wrap, with yarn from sheep I knew personally, to ward off the chill. The wrap and my boots would add a festive touch.

  At the moment, the slippery fabric was giving Kathy fits.

  “Well, I think you’re safe for a while. Nick isn’t even dating.” My brother’s fiancée had been killed last February. Good-looking and self-supporting, with no disgusting habits or dangerous addictions—except tracking wolves—he was highly eligible, and several women had made their interest clear. He’d had a brief, disastrous fling last summer, then declared he wasn’t ready for another serious relationship and disappeared into his work. “Actually, I’ve been trying to reach him. I saw him drive into town on my way here—home from Glacier, or Alberta, or wherever the wolves took him—but I don’t think he saw me.”

  Kathy stuck the last pin in her cushion and made a circle with her finger. When I finished my slow pirouette, she reached up to tug at the bodice, then poked a finger around the neckline and pulled on one shoulder. Dress fittings are a bit like certain medical exams.

  “The biggest challenge is your sister,” she said, her words finally clear. “Am I going to need to take in a maternity dress at the last minute?”

  “It’s okay. Even if the baby arrives early, she says nobody will be looking at her anyway. Just me and the baby.”