On my way out, I spotted the box of Christmas decorations sitting outside the front door. Jack Muir, in a short-sleeved blue tunic like his wife’s, leaned a ladder against the building.
“Kinda late, I know.” He gestured to the box and the heap of lights on the sidewalk. A too-small wreath hung on the door, decorated with plastic dogs and cats and topped with a crooked red bow that resisted my efforts to straighten it.
“I’m sure your in-laws would be happy to help,” I said, but the look on his face said he doubted it.
Twenty-Five
I drove past the turnoff to the sheriff’s office. I needed to tell Detective Bello what I’d learned, but the facts were still sorting themselves out in my brain. And I had to get my customers’ packages in the mail.
P.O. first, I decided, then pee-oh the detective.
The Thorntons’ view of love and loyalty looked seriously skewed to me. Sure, bad choices are scary, and they upend hopes and dreams. But aren’t we meant to help those we love change their ways and live their best lives?
Not if they don’t want to.
But who doesn’t want to? What kind of person chooses a gulf—a canyon, a breach—over a bridge? What kind of parent?
Just before the bridge over the place where Jewel Bay meets Eagle Lake, I turned right. My heart ached for all the loss and pain in this precious corner of the world.
I steered into the post office parking lot, wondering how Sally had ever fallen for a scumbag like Cliff Grimes. Smart women, bad choices—happens every day.
I parked Ned’s big, dark truck next to one much like it, and opened the door. I swung my left foot out, but the truck was higher than I was used to and I half stepped, half slipped toward the ground.
“Ye-owww!” Pain tore up my tender ankle. I screeched like a wounded cat, grabbing the inside door handle to catch myself. After a long moment, my breath, ragged with pain, returned to normal, and I pulled myself up, looking through the driver’s side window to the truck parked next to me.
In a flash, I was back on the highway from Pondera to Jewel Bay, the too-bright headlights too close behind me. And then the metallic scrape of the side of the truck along my door, the panic in my throat as my car left the road, as it slid into the ice-filled ditch, as I fought to gain control, to keep the car right-side up. As I struggled, and lost.
Breathless, I shut my eyes. Told myself it was my imagination, triggered by the sudden flash of pain.
And then I saw—really saw—the passenger-side door of the other truck.
Long, deep scratches ran across the door and back panel, almost to the wheel well. The truck was newly washed, despite the frigid temperatures, and that alone made it stand out. But when I stepped away from the safety of Ned’s truck and looked closer, I detected bits of sage green paint.
My guts cramped like someone had wrapped baling twine around them.
The electric door to the post office opened and I raised my head at the sound of footsteps pounding on the pavement. A woman I’d seen around town but didn’t know stalked toward me, her cheeks flushed, her jaw clenched. The red-orange Coach bag she gripped looked genuine.
No, not toward me. Toward the truck next to mine. As she neared, I could hear her muttering sounds of fury signifying—what? And who was she? Why would she have driven me off the road?
The woman noticed me standing between our nearly identical trucks. “At least you don’t seem to mind driving a big old tub. My husband took my Volvo in for service and sold it. Too bad he didn’t sell this dented piece of garbage instead.”
I couldn’t form an answer. She climbed in and started the engine. I flattened myself against Ned’s truck as she zoomed away, barely glancing at traffic.
I watched her go, trying to steady my pounding heart long enough to get the plate number, but she was moving too fast. A basic Montana plate, deep blue with the numbers and outline of the state in reflective white. Same as the witness had seen the other night. With so many specialty plates—more than a hundred, fundraisers for organizations from Spay and Neuter to the University alumni association—the basic blue weren’t everywhere, but they weren’t scarce, either.
I caught my breath and dragged myself inside.
You can feel sometimes, when you walk into a place, that there’s just been an incident. Liz says it’s a disruption of the flow of energy a space holds, a principle of feng shui. I doubt anyone’s ever feng shui’d a post office, except maybe in Hong Kong or parts of California, but it was clear that there had been a disturbance in the Force here.
Another customer held the door for me as I lugged in my first tub of packages, a bemused look on her face. As I approached the counter, Rosemary, my favorite clerk, called to me, “I can help you, Erin.”
I bent down to pick up an envelope lying on the floor. Turned it over as I straightened. Addressed to Cary and Marla Lenhardt, and to the left, in red, PAST DUE.
“Someone dropped this,” I said and handed it to Rosemary.
“After all that commotion,” Rosemary quietly said to the other clerk, turning to place the envelope with a few others behind the counter, “Marla Lenhardt dropped half her mail. As if her bills were our fault.”
“Sure,” the other woman replied in an equally low voice. I held my breath to catch her words. “She wouldn’t owe anybody any money if we didn’t deliver them.”
Rosemary huffed a small laugh and turned back to my tub of packages as the pixels jumping around on my mental screen slid into place, and the picture became more clear.
∞
“So, I know you’ve been checking out everybody in the bank and the Building Supply, including Cary Lenhardt. Once Jason hacks into the old computer system, I’m sure you’ll find Lenhardt’s been using phony invoices and fraudulent bank accounts to siphon off money for years, so he could live above his means. That list”—I gestured to the list Brad Larson had made, now on Detective Bello’s desk—“clinches it. The closer Merrily came to the truth, the more desperate Lenhardt got, selling off his toys and his wife’s fancy car. I’m sure that’s who Ned Redaway bought his new RV from. From his wife’s reaction to the past due notices, I suspect she didn’t know what he was up to. But Merrily did, and he had to silence her.”
Bello listened without comment, sucking away on another of those miniature candy canes.
“And from the damaged truck, we can guess he wanted to keep me quiet,” I continued. “Which means Jason and the forensic accountant might be at risk, too. And maybe Greg Taylor.”
I’d rushed over to the sheriff’s office as soon as my packages were safely in the mail, actually eager to see Bello. He knew some of the financial details already, but what I’d learned might give him enough evidence to prove that Cary Lenhardt not only stole money from the Building Supply for years, but had also run me off the road and killed Merrily Thornton.
My tale finished, I sat back in the vinyl chair, feeling pounds lighter. Merrily and Greg weren’t thieves. Greg wasn’t a killer.
Bello was quiet. “That explains a lot,” he finally said, taking the candy cane out of his mouth. “And it’s good work. But Lenhardt’s not the killer.”
“What?” I sat up fast. “How do you know? Who is?”
“Medical examiner’s report came back. Time of death isn’t easy to determine, given that the body was found in winter in an unheated building, but he’s pretty certain that Merrily Thornton died between twelve and three Sunday afternoon.”
Exactly when she should have been at my house, or on her way. I was right. The cookies proved it.
“Cary Lenhardt coaches the sixth-grade boys’ basketball team. They were in Pondera for the annual holiday tournament last weekend. He was there the whole time. We have eyewitnesses and photos.”
“Greg Taylor’s son is on that team, isn’t he?”
Bello nodded slowly. “According to everyone I’ve talked with, Greg Taylor missed the first half of Sunday’s afternoon game.”
And for that, I had no ex
planation. Only deep, deep sadness.
∞
“Third time this week,” the cashier at the Building Supply said with a smart-aleck grin. Judy? That didn’t sound right. “The joys of home ownership, huh? Though I’m glad to see you. Things have been so quiet, I’m afraid people are taking their business elsewhere. With all the talk, you know.”
I knew. “Sorry to hear that.”
She lowered her voice. “I’d quit in a minute if I thought Greg Taylor was a killer. I’m glad you’re investigating.”
“Thanks. Your daughter home for break yet?”
Her eyes lit up, then turned sad as she spoke. “She’ll be home this afternoon. I didn’t know she was planning to give Ashley a ride up here to spend Christmas break with her mom. Ashley’s coming anyway, since her father’s here.”
Both fathers, though she didn’t know that yet.
“That’s great. Your daughter will have company on the drive, and Ashley will have a friend while she’s here.” Time to clear up the matter of the cash in the cigar box. “Hey, last Saturday, did Merrily come back in later?”
“Not that I saw, and I was right here all day.”
Merrily hadn’t come back to hide the stolen cash in her cigar box. So how had it gotten there? Maybe Lenhardt had snuck the money out of the bag to cast suspicion on her, then snuck it into the cigar box Monday morning, when her absence gave him the opportunity.
That would explain what had bothered me. If a woman kept her daughter’s picture in a keepsake box, it would be on top where she could see it, not hidden by a dirty wad of bills.
“I still can’t believe it,” the cashier continued, and I racked my brain for her name. Not Judy, and not Julie … “So hopeful when she walked out of here, and I never saw her again. Stinks.”
“That it does.” I paused. “Greg in?”
“No. He’s meeting a contractor on a job site, working up a materials estimate. Not sure when he’ll be back.”
Well, pooh.
Which meant it was back to minding my own business.
∞
It’s Christmas-time in the village.
That’s not the way the song goes, but you couldn’t persuade me otherwise—not with every parking spot full.
A few of my neighbor merchants like to gripe about parking, and I’ve certainly felt the flush of annoyance on summer days when I’ve been forced to circle through our one-lane village, eyes peeled—days when even the secret spaces only the locals know were occupied.
My poor car. Though I was grateful for Nick’s generosity, I doubted I’d love the new rig like I had the Subaru. The first car I’d chosen myself, it had shuttled me safely all around the Northwest for years.
I slowed and turned into Back Alley a second time. Truth is, a village wants a parking problem. It signifies busy sidewalks and shoppers searching for treasures.
Delivery trucks aren’t supposed to block traffic or parking spaces, but it happens from time to time. One August morning before our annual art and food festival, a beer truck driver ignored the NO ACCESS signs, and while he was unloading cases at Red’s, vendors started setting up their booths at the intersection of Back and Front. He was trapped. I hope he enjoyed himself at the festival, because it was probably his last day on the job.
Finally, I scored a space wide enough for Ned’s pickup. Got out carefully, remembering the jolt on my ankle an hour ago, and pocketed the keys.
Three steps inside the Merc’s back door, I could tell we were hopping. I detoured to the office and called Wendy to order three Caprese panini.
The Holidaze were in full swing. Lunch was on me.
I changed into dry shoes, swapped my coat and gloves for an apron, and joined my staff on the shop floor. Behind the chocolate counter, Tracy chatted up three customers at a time, talking flavors and nuts and cocoa solids while filling boxes with truffles.
At the cash register, Lou Mary had a line of her own.
I threw them each a happy smile they were too busy to catch, and made for the meat cooler, where a couple were debating options. “The beef is raised a few miles north of town,” I said. “Grass-fed, organic, no hormones. Same with the pork, though it comes from south of town.”
“And the chicken?” the woman asked.
“East.” I helped them pick a few cuts and took their order for a Christmas turkey. Then it was on to a customer filling her shopping basket with jams and jellies as gifts for her office staff. Two younger women, one with a baby cradled in a cloth carrier, were testing Luci’s lotions, and as I answered their questions, I made a mental note to suggest a line of baby products.
And so it went. Village retail is a low-tech, high-touch business. I sent Tracy next door to pick up our sandwiches, and we took turns sitting at the counter to eat. The creamy mozzarella, ripe tomatoes, and spicy-green basil tasted like heaven on grilled bread.
Tracy popped open a Diet Coke and I looked at her in alarm. “What about Polka? Don’t you need to run home and check on him?”
“No.” Her eyes lit up. “Rick’s here. He surprised me a day early.”
Her boyfriend, Rick, traveled the state selling products from his family’s grain business, Montana Gold. He’d tripled sales in less than two years, and I liked to think I’d had a hand in that—not because we were good customers, though we were, but because I’d convinced him that small markets like the Merc could play a big part in feeding our communities.
During the mid-afternoon lull, I limped upstairs for a breather. The updated gift registry lay where I’d tossed it earlier. I reached for my phone before remembering it didn’t work. I sighed again. But I hated to buy a new one, if there was a chance the old one could be saved.
I made another call instead. Texting is so easy. But with only the Merc’s landline, I had to do things the old-fashioned way.
Tanner answered on the first ring. I’d finally met Adam’s childhood sidekick this past summer, when he came out to meet me and ask Adam for a very big favor. Since then, I’d served as an informal business consultant for his sustainable active wear company, and we chatted briefly about an equipment upgrade he was considering.
Business done, I dove in to the personal stuff. “What’s the story with Adam’s brothers? He always calls them Cain and Abel, but that’s a joke, right? I mean, they run a business together.”
“Think Fred and George Weasley in Slytherin instead of Gryffindor. Though without the wizarding cloaks. They’ve grown out of the worst of it. Mostly.”
That made the point. I wriggled in my chair, stretching out a sore hip. “I can’t believe we’re using Hogwarts dorms as family metaphors.”
Far away in Minnesota, Tanner snorted. “When we were in grade school, Z and I fantasized that we were real brothers who get left on the wrong doorsteps. Major stork screw-up. I don’t have any sibs, but—well, you’ve seen pictures, right? As soon as we learned about genetics, we saw the flaw in our theory. The Zimmerman boys are all peas in a pod.”
We signed off and I returned to my Spreadsheet of Suspicion. The mystery of the theft at the Building Supply was solved, in my mind, but a murderer was still loose. In the list of suspects, I wrote in Cary Lenhardt’s name for my attacker, then struck it out as the killer. I’d already eliminated Brad Larson, so that left me with Greg, Walt, and Taya.
Heidi had said the Thorntons would do anything for each other. Did she mean that literally? Even kill? I couldn’t believe it. If Merrily going to prison shamed Taya enough to shun her, surely she would never do anything that might land her in prison herself.
But we all have our breaking points, the things we simply can’t see logically.
I switched screens to update the Merc’s social media. Added a few new holiday photos of the shop and updated the Merchants’ Association accounts as well.
As I scrolled through my feed, pics from the grade-school basketball tournament popped up. There was Holly Muir on Saturday, cheering on the fourth graders. She wore a puffy coat like Merrily’s, a
lthough hers was black, and a pair of those same super-cute red-and-black plaid gloves. Merrily had said they were a gift—from Holly?
The image of Merrily lying on the schoolhouse floor came into my head. No blood, no weapon. How had she been killed?
I tried to push the image away, but something about it called to me. As if Merrily herself were asking me to find her killer.
Twenty-Six
The Merc. This is Erin,” I said into the shop phone.
“Darling, family dinner tonight, your house,” my mother said. “I’ll bring dessert.”
“At your service.” What else could I say? A mother retains lifelong rights to invite herself over for dinner, even after she sells her kid the house.
We were a few minutes from closing, so I had just enough time to pick up the liqueur Mom had asked for. When I reached the shop floor, Tracy and Lou Mary were behind the chocolate counter, working and chatting.
At my approach, Tracy slid the small chalkboard with today’s truffle menu across the counter, blocking my view.
“What are two you up to?” I said.
“Nothing,” they replied in unison.
I flicked my eyes from one employee to the other. “Ri-i-ight. Hey, I’ve got an errand to run, but I should be back before Adam gets here to pick me up.”
In the liquor store, Greg Taylor stood in the far aisle, a large bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin in one hand.
“Hey,” I said, and he jerked his head toward me, obviously startled.
“Hey—Erin.” He waved his empty hand toward the colorful bottles on the shelf. “You know about these fancy drinks, don’t you? I need something for my wife.”
“Better to ask your sister, not me. What does she like?”
“Sweet things.”
“How about a sparkling wine? A rosé cava would be nice. Celebrating?” I barely knew the woman, and I wondered what she had thought about Greg hiring Merrily. And what she would think when she found out about Ashley.
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