by J. R. Ripley
“Going wrong? What do you mean?”
“It started about six months ago, I’d say. At first it was little things, a broken window, clogged toilets, a damaged display. Not much but more than usual. Then it escalated to things like graffiti and small fires. Somebody even lit a smoke bomb in Sugarplum House.”
I whistled. “I had no idea.”
“We try to keep such things hush-hush.”
“Who do you think was responsible?”
“At first I thought it was kids. You know, their idea of pranks. But it caused a lot of damage. The Kinley kids were getting fed up with everything.”
“Maybe that’s what made them finally decide to sell.”
“It didn’t help. They’ve wanted to sell ever since their father died. I can tell you this, we never had half as many incidents in all the years Tyrone ran the business.”
“How do you explain it?”
“I don’t.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “I hate to say it, but the troubles have escalated lately. Now I think it’s disgruntled employees. Hardly anybody was happy when Franklin Finch took over from the Kinley family. All of us felt like we’d had the rug pulled out from under us. And, in a way, we had.” Eve Dunnellon sighed. “Small towns don’t like change.”
“I believe you’re right.” I looked at the paneled wall behind the desk. A row of Kinley portraits had once hung there. Now there was only a cumbersome gilt-framed photograph of Franklin Finch. I had a feeling it wouldn’t hang there much longer. “And you really think it was the employees committing sabotage?”
The newly reinstated manager nodded. “And the ex-employees. Don’t forget, Finch had fired a lot of the longtime Christmas House Village staff. Half of them seem to parade around out front every day. Thank goodness that appears to be over. That’s not good for our image or our business.” She lifted her chin. “I’m hoping to hire many of them back.”
“And has the sabotage ended then, now that Finch is out of the picture?”
“You would think so. I’ve just returned to the job, but I haven’t been informed of any recent issues that would suggest vandalism.”
“That’s good. Franklin Finch’s murder may have been the ultimate act of outrage against his ownership.”
“Murder?” Eve shook her head. “Franklin hung himself.”
“Maybe. I believe there are some suspicious circumstances.”
Eve nodded. “That’s right, you were there. You and your friend. What sort of suspicious circumstances?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say. It is an active police investigation.”
“I understand.” She tapped a pencil against the desk.
The look on Eve’s face told me I had struck a nerve. “What? What aren’t you telling me, Eve?”
The manager bit her lower lip as she considered her words. “Look, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. I mean, the Kinley family always liked to keep unpleasantness out of the public eye.”
“Unpleasantness?” Now she really had me interested.
“Things like vandalism, shrinkage.”
“Shrinkage?”
“That’s the polite way of saying employees stealing from us.” She shrugged. “Believe me, it happens. Even in Santa’s world. When it does, we handle it discreetly. It wouldn’t be good for our public image to have such unpleasant activities and occurrences splashed in the news.”
“I’m not sure what it is you’re trying to say.”
She sighed heavily. “Just between you and me”—she wiggled a finger between us—“occasionally we have to let someone go due to, uh . . . behavior issues. We recently had to fire someone.”
“When was that?”
Eve thought a moment. “Right after Franklin arrived.”
“For stealing?”
She shook her head. “For vandalism.”
“One of your own employees?”
“That’s right. He was seen damaging one of the boilers. We also think he was responsible for a recent computer virus. Our IT guy says the virus started on a computer this person had regular access to. Who knows what else he might have been responsible for? We’ve had a lot of computer glitches.”
“Who was he? Have you told the police about him?”
“His name is Bobby Cherry. And to answer your question, no, I haven’t told the police. I don’t know if anyone else has.”
Eve reached into her purse with her good hand and came out with a package of tissues. She pulled one free and wiped her nose. “I suppose I should. You have to remember, I wasn’t an employee at the time of Franklin Finch’s death.”
“That’s true. Where is Bobby now? Have you seen him since?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know where I might find him?”
Eve’s head jerked in surprise. “Why would you want to find him?”
“Not me personally,” I said—a half-truth. “I’m sure Chief Kennedy would like a word with him, if he hasn’t already.”
“I suppose you’re right. He had been living in a frog at Virginia Johnson’s house until she passed away. I don’t know where he’s living now.”
“In a—”
Eve stuck her hand up like a stop sign. “That’s enough about Christmas House Village and its troubles. What brings you by, Amy?”
“Well, you see, I—” My brain was still on the living in a frog statement she’d dropped on me. Eve’s cell phone at the corner of the desk blotter began chiming ping! ping! ping!
Eve picked it up and rolled her eyes. “Not important. Go ahead, Amy.”
“Are you sure you don’t need to get that?”
“They’ll wait.” She tilted back in her desk chair, folding her hands over her expansive waistline. “This is about the birdseed ornaments, right?”
“Yes,” I said. Thankfully, the infernal pinging of her mobile phone finally ceased. I squirmed and clutched my purse. “As you know, you and I signed a contract for two gross and—”
Eve lifted a hand. “And when can I have them?”
The corners of my mouth lifted. “You mean, you want them?” Relief washed over me.
“Yes, of course. I ordered them, didn’t I?”
“You did. But . . .”
“Yeah?”
“It might be dumb of me to say this, but when I came here the other day, Mr. Finch canceled the order.”
“He did?”
“Yes. In fact, he practically tossed the contract in my face.”
“Well, you don’t see Franklin Finch here now, do you?”
I shook my head and chuckled. “You know, when I told him that my contract was with you, he pretty much said the same thing.”
Now it was Eve Dunnellon’s turn to laugh. “Ain’t karma something?” She grabbed up a handful of file folders teetering on the edge of her desk. “Sorry to make this short, Amy. But I’ve got tons and tons to do.”
“I understand.” I stood.
Eve flashed a smile. “You get those ornaments to me ASAP. I’ve got some trees all ready to go in Santa’s House. We’re doing an entirely wildlife and nature theme there this year. Those ornaments of yours will be perfect.”
Eve turned her attention to her papers and I turned to the door.
Downstairs on the sales floor, I watched a young boy gaze with fascination at the Christmas circus train running around two silvery artificial Christmas trees in a big figure eight. The half dozen mechanized elves clanged their approval while the live elves packaged up boxes for the customers lined up at the counter.
There had never been any doubt. Christmas was a big business. And at Kinley’s, now Finch’s, next whoever’s, Christmas House Village, someone stood to make a mint.
The question remaining in my mind was who.
As the young man behind the counter finished and stepped back
onto the sales floor, I nabbed him.
“Excuse me. May I speak with you a moment?”
“Hi.” He looked me over. “Do you work here?”
“No, I’m a vendor, though.”
“Cool.” He had sharp brown eyes. The wreath attached to his green velvet vest identified him as Ryder. His breath identified him as a lover of gingerbread.
“I was just wondering, Ryder, if you were here when . . .” My eyes drifted upward.
“When?” Ryder spread his hands in a gesture to indicate he had no idea what the crazy lady was talking about. Crazy lady being me.
I pulled him behind one of the Christmas trees, not wanting to spoil the holiday mood of the shoppers filling the room. “When Mr. Finch . . .”
“Ohhh.” Ryder nodded vigorously. “When the old guy tied the permanent knot around his neck.” His candy-cane-colored leggings were less than flattering. I tried to imagine Derek in a pair and failed. Thank goodness.
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
“Yeah. Me and Deb . . .” He paused and pointed to the young woman behind the counter. “We were in all afternoon.” He tugged off his elf hat, scratched the top of his head, then put it back on. “Right up until closing, as a matter of fact. Me, Deb, and Gladys.”
“Gladys?”
“The old lady who’s in charge of the house.”
“I see. Did you see or hear anything unusual that day?”
He furrowed his brow. “You mean like Finch hanging himself?” He shook his head emphatically. “Nope. Not a peep.” He suddenly grinned ear to ear. “Hey,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulder, “get it? Finch? Didn’t make a peep!” He snorted. “Funny, right?”
I tried to smile but couldn’t muster one up. “Did you know a former employee here by the name of Bobby Cherry?”
Ryder frowned. “That jerk?” He shook his head. “That guy was nothing but trouble. He came in late and disappeared half the time he was here. Probably catching a nap or smoking when he wasn’t supposed to. Good riddance, I say.” He paused, a look of shock on his face. “I mean, you aren’t related to him or anything, are you, lady?”
“No,” I assured him. “Thank you,” I said, pulling away. “I’ll let you carry on.” Talking to Ryder wasn’t going to get me anywhere.
“Any time!” he called.
On my way out the door, I ran into the sales clerk I’d seen the last time I’d been to Elf House, the time I’d come to pay Franklin Finch a visit.
I stepped into her path. “Hi, remember me?” I stuck out my hand. “Amy Simms. I own Birds and Bees here in town.”
“Hi,” said the befuddled woman. “Can I help you?”
Her coat was unzipped to the waist. She wore a name badge shaped like a Christmas wreath, just like the rest of the employees. This one told me her name was Gladys and that she was from the North Pole.
I wasn’t surprised. According to the nametags, every employee was from the North Pole. Christmas House Village went all-in to maintain the Christmas holiday spirit and setting.
“Hello, Gladys, right?” I nodded in the general direction of her name tag. Though my new friend Ryder had called her an old lady, she was probably no more than fifty years old.
“That’s right.” Gladys straightened the plastic wreath bearing her name. She looked past me to the door. “I need to get back to work.”
I laid my hand on her sleeve. “Of course. I was just wondering if you noticed anything unusual about Mr. Finch before the terrible accident?”
Gladys turned wary. “Unusual how?”
“Was he acting funny? Did he seem depressed to you?”
“He wasn’t friendly but”—she tilted her head a moment—“I wouldn’t say particularly depressed.” Gladys shrugged. “Who’s to say, right?”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Gladys frowned, deep in thought. “Maybe a few hours before closing.”
“Did you notice anyone else going upstairs around that time?”
Gladys chuckled. “Yesterday was payday. We were all up there yesterday getting our paychecks. Let me tell you, I hope they get payroll worked out for next time. I had to go back twice to get my check. I saw Santa go back three times!” She held up three fingers. “Stupid computer system. I liked the old way. We used to get our checks handwritten. Not now—some dang computer has to spit them out. Eve was sure mad.”
“Eve Dunnellon?”
Gladys ran her hand through her hair. “She came by to collect her severance pay and the accountant—”
“Gladys!” Eve called from the top of the stairs. “Where’s that receipt log I asked you for an hour ago?”
“In a minute, Eve!” Gladys dodged to her right and was past me before I could formulate another question.
Why hadn’t Eve mentioned being at Christmas House Village the day of Franklin Finch’s demise?
Curious about Eve Dunnellon’s plans for displaying and marketing our birdseed ornaments, I wandered down to Santa’s House and went inside. Sure enough, stuffed animals climbed the tinsel that had been hung from the walls and the Christmas trees themselves. There were quite a few species of bird plush toys occupying the first floor as well. Eve was right, this would be a perfect complement to our Birds & Bees ornaments.
I rubbed my cold hands together. Hopefully, sales would be brisk and whoever took over Christmas House Village next would see the benefit of maintaining our relationship with them.
A security guard strolled past me. When he paused at the drinking fountain tucked under the stairwell, I patted him on the shoulder.
“Yes, miss?” It was the older of the two security guards I’d seen around Christmas House Village. This being the mild-mannered Japanese American, around fifty years old, a sharp contrast to the surly and menacing Max, who looked like he ate linebackers for breakfast.
“I wondered if I could talk to you about Mr. Finch.” The security guard too wore a wreath for a name tag. His identified him as Leo.
“Mr. Finch died, miss.”
“I know. I was the one who found him. Rather, not me, but my friend and then she called me and . . .” I stopped when I recognized by the look on his face that I was only confusing him. “I’m wondering if you’d heard anything. I mean, have the police told you anything?” I nudged my brow up. “Officer to officer?”
Leo chuckled. “They’ve not told me a thing, miss.” He moved into the next room, his hands folded behind his back, and I followed. “Nor are they likely to.”
“Were you here when it happened?”
Leo stopped, turned, and shook his head. “Nope. I come in when we open and leave at five. Max would have been here. He puts in long hours. He’s a new hire. Worked last at some hotel in Black Mountain. I guess he wants to impress the boss. Not me. I’ve got a wife and kids. I like to get home. Know what I mean?”
I nodded to show I did. Besides, I had seen Max that night myself. Had the police questioned him? Probably. “A big place like Christmas House Village, you must have security cameras, right?”
The corners of Leo’s mouth turned up. “The Kinleys never wanted them. They said it would detract from the holiday spirit.” He waved his hand at the ornately decorated den we now occupied. “They like to keep things festive. Fun.”
“I can appreciate that. Yet, if they’d had security cameras, they might have been able to avoid problems likes the ones Bobby Cherry caused.”
Leo’s face darkened. “That boy was bad news.”
“At least he’s gone now.”
“Yeah,” said Leo, “but the troubles aren’t.”
“They aren’t?” That jibed with what Eve had told me.
“If you ask me, there are some people who would rather Christmas didn’t happen.”
“Like who?”
The security guard thre
w his hands in the air. “I don’t have a clue. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to keep moving. I’m supposed to make my rounds once an hour.”
“Of course.”
He moved silently off to the next room.
Looking around, I could see how having security cameras might put a damper on that holiday spirit. Too bad though. The right security camera in the right place might have revealed what really happened the night Franklin Finch was found swinging from the rafter tie.
Because I had a hunch there was more to this Christmas story than met the eye.
10
Mom and I stepped into Spring Beauty for her three o’clock appointment. The salon was located on the east side of Ruby Lake in the middle of a low-slung brick building that also housed a laundromat on one side and a vintage clothing shop on the other.
“Hi, Aunt Barbara.” Cousin Rhonda wiggled her brightly painted nails at us as we pushed through the door and hung up our coats. “Hello, Amy.” She practically sang my name, making it sound like four or five syllables rather than the simple two it was designed to be. “I’ll be with you in a jiff!”
We took seats in the rattan chairs lined up in front of the window. The chairs each held bubblegum-pink cushion seats. They were so bouncy, I felt like I was sitting on a big wad of bubblegum, too.
I tapped my mother’s shoulder. “Mom, isn’t that Mrs. Fortuny?”
“Where?” Mom whispered.
I pointed to a woman with a head full of baby-blue curlers stuck under a device that looked like something aliens might be using to scoop out human brains for later processing and critical examination back in a lab on their home planet. Though my cousin had tried to coax me under one of the scary machines on more than one occasion, so far I had resisted. I liked my hair—and my brain—the way it was and where it was.
“Yes, I believe it is.” Mom folded her gloves neatly, laid them in her pocketbook, and clipped it shut.
Mrs. Fortuny’s eyes flew open as if we’d just invoked a demon. “Barbara Simms, is that you?”
“Hello,” Mom said with a wave. “How are you, Irma dear?”
