The doves came with their own individual carrying cages. The chickens were in an oversized wooden crate that took up the rest of the space on top of the Emporium’s worktable. The cages of the four “calling birds”—played by pet parrots borrowed from all over the county—hung from every convenient hook.
“Okay, boys and girls,” Liss told them when she’d finished with the chickens. “Your turn.”
Parrots seemed to be somewhat cleaner in their habits, and they were certainly prettier to look at. Still, they came with their own set of problems. For one thing, they had to be kept warm, a tricky proposition with a pageant that was being held outdoors.
They also talked.
It had been the blue and yellow parrot who’d wanted tea. Winston. She gave old Winston some seeds and refilled his water dish. The mostly yellow one—Claudine—appeared to be sleeping. Liss hoped she was sleeping. Visions of reliving parts of the dead parrot sketch from Monty Python’s Flying Circus danced in her head. The third parrot, Augustus, was mostly red. He gave her an evil leer as he sidled back and forth on his perch.
The fourth parrot was named Polly. She was green. She watched with ill-disguised mistrust as Liss put out food and water. Liss latched the door to Polly’s cage when she’d finished, but didn’t cover it. She planned to leave the lights on for the birds, too. She’d come back to collect them in an hour or so for the ceremony, after which they’d go back to their owners until the pageant a week from Sunday.
“Polly want a cracker,” Polly said in decidedly cranky tone of voice.
“That is so clichéd!” About to leave the stockroom, Liss turned to look back at the bird. “Besides, I don’t have any crackers.”
“Polly hungry,” the parrot screeched, sounding even more irritable than before. “Gimme the f___ing cracker!”
Chapter Four
Be careful what you wish for, Sherri Willett thought on Sunday evening as she directed yet another out-of-state car toward the parking lot behind the grocery store. Shoppers had come to Moosetookalook, all right, and they’d brought their bad manners with them.
The town selectmen, Jason Graye in particular, were up in arms. The invaders were so desperate to lay hands on the one toy every child must find under the tree this year, or to score collectibles for themselves, that they had wrecked lawns by parking on them, created traffic jams, and even engaged in fistfights.
Things became quieter once darkness fell—thankfully early at this time of year—but the need for a visible police presence had everyone in the department working overtime. Sherri had barely seen her son all weekend. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the extra income, but she was not looking forward to working twelve-hour shifts from now until Christmas. According to the newly posted schedule, she’d get off at midnight, have a whole twenty-four hours to catch up on sleep and play with Adam, and then work midnight to noon for the next week. Both her feet and her head ached just thinking about it.
During a break in traffic, a team from one of the Portland television stations approached Sherri. A microphone was thrust into her face and she could see the red light indicating that the camera was running.
“Any trouble with the crowds, officer?”
Sherri had no great desire to see her own image on the small screen, bigger than life and in high definition that showed every wrinkle and blemish, but it didn’t look as if she had a choice. Repressing a shudder, she managed a stilted smile. “Everything’s going very smoothly. We have plenty of parking available for anyone who wants to come to Moosetookalook.”
She wasn’t about to reveal the selectmen’s gripes or describe the disgruntled customer who’d stomped down the porch steps of The Toy Box empty-handed and cussing a blue streak because Thorne’s markup was too steep for his wallet. Nor was she going to mention the shouting match she’d witnessed earlier that day between Stu Burroughs and Gavin Thorne.
In Sherri’s opinion, Stu was beating a dead horse. No way was Thorne going to share the goodies. Stu would do better to think of some novel way of his own to attract passing customers into his shop. A sale, maybe, though she could understand why cutting his prices might not appeal to him when Thorne kept raising his.
Sherri was vaguely aware of the reporter blathering on for the camera while she continued to direct traffic, but she was startled when the woman suddenly thrust the microphone in front of her again.
“Is that true, officer?”
“I couldn’t say.” Sherri kept smiling and hoped she hadn’t just made a fool of herself. She couldn’t say because she had no idea what the question had been.
A spattering of applause heralded Liss’s introduction of the symbol of the fifth day of Christmas—five huge, interlocking rings made of cardboard and covered with sparkly gilt paint.
Sherri jerked her head toward the town square behind her. “You might want to head over there before you miss this evening’s ceremony.”
“Five golden rings,” the reporter murmured.
“Looks like a poor man’s version of the Olympic symbol,” her cameraman muttered, but he dutifully aimed his equipment away from Sherri and toward the gazebo-style bandstand.
A small crowd of locals and tourists had gathered around it. The children playing on the jungle gym, merry-go-round, and swings in the playground area ignored the podium and the P.A. system that squealed when Liss tested it, but the grown-ups filling the space between the flagpole and the monument to the Civil War dead quieted down enough to listen. Feeling cynical, Sherri decided that was probably because there was a camera rolling. Or else they were hoping for another embarrassing incident. One of the previous night’s featured performers had proved to have an…interesting vocabulary.
Assisted by chief of police Jeff Thibodeau, dressed as Santa Claus, Liss hoisted the rings into the air. She said a few words about the twelve days of Christmas shopping in Moosetookalook, and encouraged everyone to take advantage of the opportunity to visit all of the community’s shops. Then she turned the gazebo over to the carolers.
They sang standing next to the “pear tree” from the first night of the pageant. It was actually a young apple tree in a large pot. Wax pears and a stuffed partridge had been wired to otherwise bare branches. Sherri was glad Liss had reconsidered asking the art teacher at the high school to make her something out of papier mâché. Precipitation of some sort was likely during the twelve days it would have to sit outdoors, even if that precipitation didn’t fall in the form of snow.
Sherri hummed along with the Christmas carols while she continued to direct traffic. Things were slowing down a bit, but The Toy Box was still open. With the other stores around the town square closed for the night, Gavin Thorne’s shop windows shone like a beacon. He’d strung Christmas bulbs around every frame and across the porch. A flashing light highlighted a sign announcing the current price for Tiny Teddies. It seemed to go up every time Sherri turned around.
The cost of a Tiny Teddy from Gavin Thorne’s shop was now a hundred and fifty dollars. He’d jacked the price up yet again just as soon as Liss sold the last of her supply. Sherri wasn’t sure, but she thought Marcia might still have one or two left. Then again, Marcia had started out pricing her bears at a hundred dollars apiece.
Crazy, Sherri thought. People who’d pay that much for a stuffed toy have got to be nuts.
But like moths to a flame, shoppers couldn’t seem to stay away. Almost everyone who entered Thorne’s store came out carrying a small Toy Box bag in a manner that suggested it contained treasure more precious than gold.
“I haven’t seen anything like this since the Beanie Baby craze back in the late ’90s,” the cameraman said as he and the reporter passed Sherri again on their way out of the town square.
Sherri had a vague memory of what he was talking about, but only that there had been a shortage of the toys, not that prices had gone sky high. Back then, she’d been a rebellious teenager living on her own after she’d dropped out of high school and run away from Moosetookaloo
k.
How things had changed!
On Monday morning, Liss was in no hurry to reopen the Emporium. A sign in the window told shoppers she was sold out of Tiny Teddies. She did not expect anywhere near as many customers as she’d had over the weekend, although she did hope there would still be some overflow from The Toy Box. After all, she had other items in stock that would make wonderful Christmas gifts.
She took her time feeding and cleaning up after the assorted poultry living in her stockroom and only when that was done did she unlock the shop. During the morning and the first part of the afternoon, business was steady, if not exactly stellar. Then it fell off entirely. The sleigh bells on the door hadn’t jangled for over an hour when Eric Moss turned up with a delivery—six geese for that evening’s ceremony.
“Are they getting fat?” she asked, remembering again the song about Christmas, pennies, and hats.
“Why?” Moss asked. “You planning on eating them after the ceremony?”
Taken aback, Liss just stared at him. She honestly hadn’t made the connection. Her family usually had a nice turkey and maybe a ham at Christmas. She peered into the huge crate. Two of the geese stared back at her. One stuck its head through the slats and tried to peck her.
“You’ll have to watch out. Geese have nasty temperaments. Do best if they weren’t so confined, too.”
“They are not getting the run of the stockroom.”
“You got a garage, don’t you? Use that as a coop.”
“Isn’t it too cold out there? And I have chickens and pigeons, too.”
Moss shook his head in disbelief as he wheeled the dolly with the crate toward the stockroom. “Used to be kids who grew up in the country knew something about farm life. You do know eggs come from chickens and milk comes from cows, right?”
“There’s no need for sarcasm,” she muttered, following him.
“My folks raised chickens. Had a few goats and a couple of cows, too, and our own apple trees. Planted vegetables every year.”
“The good old days?” Liss wrinkled her nose as one of the geese made a deposit in the straw in the crate. It was not an egg, golden or otherwise.
Moss snorted. “Not so good. Folks around here barely got by even back then. Anyway, what I was going to say is that our chicken coop was a wooden building with no heat or insulation except for the straw in the nests. Never seemed to bother the birds none to be cold. They got them nice feather coats.” He grinned, showing a mouthful of store-bought teeth.
The retired delivery service driver was a lean man of medium height, although age had given him a slight stoop. When he’d unloaded the crate, he wheeled the dolly back into the shop. “I hear you’re all out of Tiny Teddies.”
“I’m afraid so.” Liss retreated behind the sales counter.
“You sold ’em too cheap.”
“Probably, but I didn’t feel comfortable putting the price up higher.” Her profit had been healthy enough and her customers had gone away happy. Many of them had spent time browsing in the Emporium and made other purchases before they left. Others had promised to check out her Web site next time they needed a unique gift.
“Would you charge more if you had to do over again?” Propping an elbow next to the cash register, Moss leaned close enough for Liss to catch a whiff of the Ben Gay he used to keep his arthritic fingers limber.
She considered the question for only a moment before she replied. “I doubt it.”
He frowned at her answer and seemed to be pondering its significance as he left the counter to wander around the shop. It took him a good ten minutes to finally came to the point. “I can get you more.”
Liss felt her eyes widen in disbelief. “More Tiny Teddies?”
“Yep. And ’cuz I like you, Liss, I’ll sell ’em to you for only fifty bucks apiece.”
“How…generous of you.”
“Interested?”
“No.”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her marbles. “Why not?”
“These bears of yours aren’t wearing kilts, are they?”
“No.”
“There you have it, then. Besides, you want too much for them.”
“I could come down a bit.”
Liss sighed. She really didn’t want to ask. “Where did you get them, Mr. Moss?”
“I’ve got my sources.”
“Yes, well, I’ve got a source, too—for information. It’s called the Internet, and this last week I’ve been reading up on Tiny Teddies. Seems there are some unscrupulous people who are trying to pass off counterfeit bears as the real thing.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Moss mumbled.
“No? Seems these bears are cheaply made in China. The collectors don’t want anything to do with them. They aren’t, well, collectible. One report I read said they weren’t particularly safe for toddlers to play with, either.”
Moss looked offended. “I wouldn’t try to pull a fast one on you, Liss. These are the real deal.”
“Then you’ll have to tell me how you got hold of them. Otherwise I can’t risk buying them.”
“You saying they might be stolen? No such thing! I’ll have you know I’m an honest businessman!”
He acted as if she’d insulted him, but Liss remembered his clandestine meeting with Jason Graye. Something had been “off” about it. “Can you prove your bears were made in the U.S.?”
Aside from the counterfeiting issue, Liss’s research had revealed that the toys were legitimately manufactured on both sides of the border. There was a limit, however, on the number of Canadian-made toys that could legally be brought into the U.S. Taking a trip to Quebec Province and filling the trunk of your car with bears, intending to resell them back home, was a big no-no. There had been several recent arrests at border crossings around the country, although none so far in Maine.
His eyes narrowed. He edged toward the exit. “I don’t have to prove nothin’!”
“Did Jason Graye set this up?”
Moss made a sound of disgust but he kept inching away from her.
“Come on, Mr. Moss. I need answers.” She slipped out from behind the sales counter, trying not to look as if she wanted to stop him from leaving. “I don’t do business with anyone who isn’t up front with me.”
“Man’s got to have some secrets.” Moss tugged nervously at a frayed section at the hem of his coat. “I stand to lose big time if someone else discovers my sources.”
“I’m not your competition.”
“So you say.” He hesitated at the door, looking uncertain whether he wanted to go or stay.
“Is Jason Graye? Or is he your partner?”
“I work alone!” Indignant, he left in a huff.
Liss peered through the display window, curious to see what Moss would do next. To her surprise, he was standing stock still on the sidewalk out front, staring at The Toy Box.
Her gaze followed his to Gavin Thorne’s display. The flashing light revealed a single Tiny Teddy, one of the ones dressed in a chef’s hat and apron. Next to it was a new sign, the black letters so huge that Liss could read them easily even though she was two houses over and half a block away.
LAST TINY TEDDY IN NEW ENGLAND—$750
Eric Moss took off across the town square. Liss found it odd that he didn’t approach Thorne or stop in at Marcia’s consignment shop but she told herself it was none of her business. She went back behind the counter, intending to look at spring catalogues and plan her stock orders.
Instead she found herself staring into space, elbows on the counter, chin propped on her fists. After a moment, her fingers moved to toy with the small silver pin of a Scottish dancer that she’d used to hold the lacy white jabot at the neckline of her blouse in place. As usual when at work, she wore an outfit from the Emporium. Her floor-length skirt was made of wool woven in the Royal Stewart tartan.
Double duty, her Aunt Margaret called the habit of dressing up for work and modeling what they sold at the same time. Sales
staff automatically became walking advertisements for the merchandise.
And this year, the merchandise had included bears. Until she’d run out. They were all sold out of Tiny Teddies, or all but. Some fool would undoubtedly pay Thorne’s asking price for the last one. The trouble was, today was only the fifteenth of December.
People who arrived in Moosetookalook expecting to find Tiny Teddies for sale would be sorely disappointed. The Spruces was fully booked, but those guests wouldn’t stay if their reason for coming to the area was gone. Word would spread. There would be cancellations. Too many of those would be an unmitigated disaster. Joe Ruskin had gone to considerable expense to bring in extra food and supplies and hire more staff. He couldn’t afford a hit of this magnitude.
Groaning, Liss let her head fall forward until it hit the hard wooden surface with a thump. She conquered the urge to bang it a few more times in frustration. She wasn’t into self-inflicted pain, physical or mental. Still, this was all her fault. She’d counted on an influx of happy shoppers that would continue through the entire week and into next weekend. The sale of the last bear was supposed to coincide with the twelfth day of the pageant on Sunday afternoon.
“Idiot!” she muttered as she straightened. She should have allowed for this, should have seen it coming. She’d known how eager people were to buy this particular toy.
She should have charged more, if only to make her Tiny Teddies last longer. Well, that ship had sailed. Her only recourse now was to contact Eric Moss. She’d told him the truth. She couldn’t afford to pay fifty dollars a bear and she didn’t trust the provenance of the toys he’d offered her. But she wasn’t the only business in town.
Her expression grim, Liss reached for the phone. Marcia owned a consignment shop. Maybe she and Moss could work something out.
Sherri had just started her shift at midnight when a call came in from Gavin Thorne. She could barely make out what he was saying.
A Wee Christmas Homicide Page 5
