How the Finch Stole Christmas

by J. R. Ripley

  Randy and Lynda Vincent operated their business out of a small log cabin near the lake, convenient to several of their rental properties.

  I saw Randy’s black-and-chrome Harley out front. There was no sign of the silver pickup that he also sometimes drove. I hoped that meant that Lynda was out. It was going to be awkward enough seeing Randy. I didn’t need to see Lynda, too.

  I parked and killed the engine, letting the CD player run for several minutes to delay the inevitable. I’d been listening to the soundtrack to Miracle on 34th Street: The Musical. I waited for the song “Expect Things to Happen” to conclude.

  I needed to make things happen. Maybe if I expected them to happen, they would.

  I pushed open my door and went inside.

  Randy was seated at his desk, which angled toward the door. An identical desk mirrored it on the other side of the small cabin. Presumably, it belonged to his wife, Lynda. A flagstone fireplace separated the two.

  “Amy.” Randy stood. “This is a surprise.” Randy is a wannabe rebel biker and his wardrobe today was no exception. He wore baggy black denim jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a black leather jacket. His only nod to the weather rather than the image was the blue flannel shirt that hung loose over his pants.

  “Hello, Randy. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” He brought a chair over from the wall and set it in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” I unbuttoned my parka and looped my purse over the back of the chair.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m sure this is uncomfortable for the two of us, so I’ll cut to the chase.”

  “Okay.” Randy returned to his big leather chair. “Shoot.” He leaned back and squinted his green eyes at me. Randy has a broad face and a narrow chin. He keeps his black hair short, probably for fear of helmet head. His fancy motorcycle helmet sat perched on the corner of his desk.

  “Kim mentioned that she saw you at Christmas House Village the day Franklin Finch was murdered. Not long before he was killed, as a matter of fact.”

  “Wow, you don’t mince your words, do you?”

  “Was she right?”

  Randy cocked his head and glanced out the window before turning his attention to me. “Sure. I was there.” He picked out a pen and tapped out a beat. “What of it?”

  “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I ask why you were there?”

  He smiled at me. “You just did.”

  “Do I get an answer?” The man was getting under my skin and not in a good way. I’d never known what Kim saw in him.

  “I had an appointment with Finch.”

  “What for?”

  “He had called here earlier in the day. He wanted me to take a look at Christmas House Village and give him a bid.”

  “A bid?”

  “He was looking to do some sort of maintenance contract.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Cash Calderon had been providing those services for years.”

  “I know.” Randy squirmed and set his pen down.

  I whispered a prayer of thanks because the incessant tapping had been driving me crazy.

  “This is a small town. I felt uncomfortable coming in and taking work from Cash. He’s good. Christmas House Village had been lucky to have his services. And that’s what I was going to tell Finch. Besides,” added Randy, “that sort of work isn’t really what we do.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He didn’t. I never saw him. I went to Christmas House Village but he wasn’t in the office. Nobody knew where he was, so I left. I figured if he wanted to talk to me, he knew where to find me.” The cell phone on Randy’s desk chirped. He turned the screen toward him and took a look. “End of story.”

  “Do you know a young man named Bobby or Robert Cherry?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Bobby’s local. He had been renting the room over the garage at Virginia Johnson’s house until she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Randy dropped his elbows on his desk and leaned closer. “That’s news to me.”

  I cleared my throat. “That hasn’t actually been confirmed yet.” At least, not that I knew of. “Anyway, I was wondering where he might have moved to afterward.”

  “And since I own rentals, you thought maybe he was renting from me?”

  I nodded. Randy rolled back his chair, stood, and crossed to an oak filing cabinet along the wall. “Cherry, you say?” he asked as he thumbed through some hanging folders.

  “That’s right.”

  “Sorry, I don’t see him.” He pushed the file drawer shut. “Any special reason you’re trying to get ahold of this guy?”

  “No. I think the police might like a word with him.”

  “Well,” Randy said, “if I run into him, I’ll be sure to let the police know.”

  I felt my cheeks heat up. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Anytime.”

  I rose, picked up my purse, and started for the door. Randy followed me.

  “How’s Kim holding up?” Randy asked, his hand on the door handle.

  “Fine,” I replied. “In fact, she’s doing great.”

  Randy ran his fingers across the top of his head. “She’s a great girl.”

  “That she is. How’s Lynda, your wife?”

  Randy’s lips twitched. “She’s good.”

  “Glad to hear it. Tell her hello for me.”

  Randy pulled open the door and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  That was one man who wouldn’t be getting so much as a lump of coal from me for Christmas.

  26

  There was no Robert Cherry in the phone book and a search of the internet revealed his address as being Virginia Johnson’s house. I’d hit another dead end.

  From the van, I dialed Birds & Bees to see how everything was going. With Esther’s assurance that everything was fine, I told her to hold the fort and promised I’d be in as soon as I could.

  She explained that Riley was out front hanging Christmas lights and that my mother was working the cash register. “And I sold our most expensive spotting scope to Frenchie McNeil.”

  I frowned at the screen of the phone. “Frenchie? What would he want a spotting scope for?” I knew Frenchie. He’d been my dentist until his eyes got so bad he had to take an early retirement.

  “To spot birds, of course,” Esther snapped.

  “But the man can barely see.”

  “He knows that,” Esther said rather impatiently. “Gotta go! Customers just walked in!”

  The line went dead.

  Birds & Bees seemed to be in capable, if batty, hands.

  I drove downtown to the public parking lot. The streets were crowded. It was a cold but blue-sky day and everyone seemed to be enjoying it. The Finch’s Christmas House Village banner still hung over the entrance to the shopping village. I was surprised someone hadn’t torn it down by now.

  I walked briskly to Harlan and Harlan, the strong wind whipping me in the face.

  To my astonishment, Gertie Hammer, bundled in her big green parka, stepped out the door. A rotund man half her age accompanied her.

  “Gertie!”

  “Simms.” The old woman didn’t look happy to see me. But then, that was nothing new. The man glanced curiously at me, then said to Gertie, “Shall we stop at the mayor’s office?”

  “Good idea.” Gertie scooted past me and rounded the corner in the direction of the town square.

  “Would you mind closing the door, please?” A woman’s voice, smooth and chilly, reached me.

  I turned. Ben and Derek’s receptionist slash secretary, the latest in a long line of such persons, sat at the front desk. “Sorry.” I’d been so amazed to see Gertie at Derek’s office that I
’d been standing there with the door open to the elements. Those elements being of the frigid variety. Not unlike Mrs. Edmunds, who sat behind the mahogany desk.

  In the short time that I’d known Derek, the office had gone through a number of front desk staff. Mrs. Edmunds seemed to have staying power.

  “Hello, Mrs. Edmunds.” I secured the door shut behind me and smiled. “Is Derek in?”

  “Yes, he is.” The coolly elegant woman favored skirt suits, and today was no exception, this one being brown tweed, matching the brown hair that fell ever so perfectly from the top of her head to the bottom of her neck, as if sprayed in place. Her skin was so pale, I had a feeling she only went out after dark.

  “I just need a quick word with him.” I unbuttoned the top button of my coat and started for the hall. Mrs. Edmunds beat me to it, blocking my path. “Have a seat, please.” She motioned to the bank of plush chairs near the door. “I’ll let Mr. Harlan know that you are here, Ms. . . . ?”

  “Simms,” I said, dropping into a chair. There was no sense arguing with the woman. “We have met—several times.”

  She smiled and picked up the phone on the corner of her desk. “There’s a Ms. Simms to see you, Mr. Harlan.”

  I squelched the extreme rolling of the eyes I felt coming on. If I didn’t play nice, Mrs. Edmunds would likely find a way to block my visit.

  “You may go back now, Ms. Simms. Second door on the left.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Once in the hallway and out of earshot, I muttered a few words I’d learned from Karl and a couple more that I had picked up from Esther.

  I found Derek seated at his desk, a stack of papers in front of him. He looked worn—still good, but worn.

  He rose and kissed me. “This is a pleasant surprise, Amy. Have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink? Mrs. Edmunds brought in homemade eggnog.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” I took a seat across from the desk near the outside wall.

  “No.” Derek returned to his leather chair and swiveled it in my direction. “I’ve got some time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. What’s up? I don’t have another appointment for nearly an hour.”

  “What did Gertie want? I saw her leaving the office as I came in.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say.” Derek slid some typed papers into a big brown envelope and set it in the left-hand drawer of his desk. “It was a personal matter.”

  “Was that her son with her?”

  “A friend. I’m afraid I really can’t say any more, Amy.”

  “I understand. Maybe you can help me with something else.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I’m trying to find this Bobby Cherry character. So far, I’ve had no luck.”

  “Does he have a criminal record?”

  “I don’t know. From what I’ve heard about him, he ought to.”

  Derek pulled his laptop closer and his fingers went to work on the keyboard. “Let me check something.”

  I listened to the clicking of the keys. “Well?” I asked when he stopped.

  “Nope. I don’t see any Robert Cherry around these parts with a criminal record of any sort.”

  “Are you sure? You can tell that?” I leaned closer. “Can I see?”

  Derek lowered the lid of his laptop. “Sorry. Confidential.”

  I pouted. “Fine. Be that way.” I folded my hands in my lap. “How do you propose I go about finding him?”

  Derek leaned back. “Assuming he still lives in Ruby Lake, as I understand from what you told me, he was working at Christmas House Village until recently. Somebody there should be able to tell you where he’s living.”

  “That’s true. Yet when I asked Eve Dunnellon, the manager, if she knew where he was living, she claimed she didn’t.”

  Derek shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t. Ask somebody who works in payroll or human resources.”

  “That’s very tempting, but I can’t think of what reason I could give them for wanting to know.”

  Derek shrugged. “There is that.” He locked his hands behind his neck. “How is Kim holding up?”

  “So-so. I hate to see her so depressed, especially during the holidays. I keep hoping that things will get back to normal soon. I believe that once Mr. Finch’s killer is caught, everybody’s spirits will lighten.”

  “I hope you’re right. Are the police any closer?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. I also found out that Toby Kinley, one of Tyrone Kinley’s kids, was in town the day Finch was killed.”

  “I doubt if that means anything.”

  “Did you know that Finch had been trying to buy the Antiques Mall?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I explained how Kim and I had found a rough sketch in his loft and then talked to Polly Carter, owner of the Antiques Mall. “He wanted to turn the spot into a parking lot.”

  “It sounds like Franklin Finch was a real go-getter.”

  “Yeah,” I said, rising, “until somebody decided he’d gotten enough.”

  * * * *

  I left Derek to his work and walked across the square to the Coffee and Tea House. I ordered a cup of chai tea and a blueberry scone and dialed Kim on my mobile phone. After exchanging greetings, I said, “Did you ask Ellery about Bobby Cherry?”

  “Mr. Belzer wasn’t in. He’s out showing a big client some properties, and then he’s going by Christmas House Village.”

  “What is he going there for?”

  “We got a call that it was time for another toy pickup. Every time the toy collection box is full, they call and we go pick up.”

  I sighed. “That’s too bad. I mean, about Bobby. I’m afraid I’ve hit a dead end when it comes to finding him.”

  “Not so fast, Amy,” Kim replied. “Mr. Belzer wasn’t in the office, but I did some digging.”

  “You found him? How? Where?”

  “I called some of my contacts. One of them owns two small apartment complexes; furnished, monthly rentals, and they’re low priced.”

  “And Bobby Cherry?”

  “He’s renting a furnished one-bedroom at the Olympia Apartments on Crawford Avenue.”

  I wasn’t familiar with the street. “Give me the address, quick!”

  Kim rattled off the address.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let me get a pen and paper.” I smoothed out the paper napkin I’d been using, then rummaged around and came up with pen. “Shoot.” Kim shot and I wrote. “I’m going to go check it out.”

  “Wait a minute, Amy.”

  “What?”

  “You told me you would turn anything you found out over to the police. Particularly when it comes to this nefarious Bobby Cherry character.”

  “And I will,” I promised as I carefully folded the napkin and stuffed it in my coat. “As soon as I do find out anything. Right now, all I have is an address and a lot of questions.”

  “Amy . . .” My best friend said my name like it was a warning.

  “What? I’m only going to drive by. Then I will call the police myself and tell them where they can find him.”

  “Promise?”

  “Scout’s honor.” I pressed two fingers over my heart. Not that she could see them, or that they were crossed, which everybody knows negates the whole promissory aspect of the oath.

  “Fine.”

  “Great.” I was anxious to hang up. “Bye.”

  “Wait a minute!”

  I sighed. “What is it now?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What?”

  “I said: You. Are. Welcome.”

  Understanding, though it often came late, finally dawned on me. “Oh, right. Thanks.”

  * * * *

  The poorly kept apartment building sat mere yards
from the weed-infested train track. The track had been abandoned decades ago when the last freight train had discontinued service.

  The apartment building itself was a nondescript rectangle of cracked vinyl siding, with four apartments on the ground floor and four above. Each apartment had an outside entrance. Concrete walkways ran along the front. I wouldn’t have trusted my life to the rusty iron railing running the length of the second floor.

  A patch of blacktop in front of the apartment building contained several older vehicles, a small boat on a trailer with one flat tire, and one shiny, new, modernistic blue motorcycle.

  I pulled to a stop beside the boat trailer and looked toward the second-floor windows. One holiday-minded renter had hung a Christmas wreath on their door. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be Bobby’s place—unless he’d stolen the wreath from Christmas House Village.

  A definite possibility.

  The curtain fluttered in the third window over, and a face peered down at me. A moment later, that face disappeared.

  I removed my keys from the ignition and slipped the key ring into my coat pocket. A bank of built-in mail slots sat at the foot of the stairs. There was no name on the box marked 203, Bobby’s apartment.

  I knew I had told Kim I would only drive by and then call the police. But we both knew I hadn’t meant it. I climbed the stairs and approached the scuffed brown door of apartment 203. The curtains were closed. No sound came from within.

  I knocked. “Hello?” A face had looked down at me from that window moments before, so I knew somebody was in. I tried again, banging my knuckles a little harder. “Bobby? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I pressed my ear to the door. All I got for my effort was a cold ear.

  Then I had an idea. “I’m Amy Simms from Birds and Bees, a store in town. A friend of mine told me you were looking for work. I could use some part-time help through the holidays.” I strained to listen. “Bobby?”

  The door flew open and I jumped back, hitting the railing. It wobbled as I locked my hands over the top rail.

  “What friend?”

  I turned around quickly. Bobby Cherry was everything that Kim had described—black hair, an acne-scarred complexion half-buried in the start of a beard, and blistering dark eyes. “More of an acquaintance really. Her name was Mary something.”