We Wish You a Murderous Christmas

by Vicki Delany

  I stood in the park, closed my eyes to feel the sting of fresh, cold air on my face and to listen to the silence broken only by the snuffling and panting of my dog.

  It was Christmas in Christmas Town, and there was nothing I loved more. When I’d lived in New York City, realizing my dream as a deputy style editor at Jennifer’s Lifestyle magazine, I thought I’d achieved everything I wanted in the world. I loved the whirl of Manhattan, the shops, the restaurants, the always-on-the-go social life. I loved working with the movers and shakers of the magazine and decorating industries. But something had always seemed off, something was missing. I’d put it down to nerves about my career, worries about my relationship with my boyfriend (worries which turned out to be well-founded, the cheating rat!). Only when I’d quit and moved back to Rudolph did I understand that this was where I was meant to be. In this charming, quirky, Christmas-obsessed little town on the snowy southern shores of Lake Ontario.

  When we got home I fed Mattie and pulled a frozen pizza out of the freezer for my own dinner. I noticed the message light blinking on my apartment phone. It was my dad, and when I called him back, my happy Christmas mood once again disappeared in a flash.

  At the hospital, Dad and Grace had found Jack listless, not wanting to talk. Grace tried to explain that Gord was moving too fast, making decisions that could not be undone once Jack had a chance to go over them in detail. Jack had merely waved his hand and said, “Let my son do what he wants to do. I don’t care anymore.” Whereupon he closed his eyes, turned his head, and pretended to fall asleep.

  “The word is obviously out,” Dad said. “My phone’s been ringing nonstop with people wanting to know what’s going on. All I can say is ‘Nothing has been decided at this time,’ but folks aren’t content with that. Dan Evans, the butcher, dropped in to visit Jack before Grace and I got there, and he started shouting at Jack, made such a fuss security was called and he was thrown out of the hospital. The hospital’s put a family-only visiting order on Jack’s room. I only got in because I was with Grace.”

  I’d never known my dad to sound so upset. He loved Rudolph. He was a former mayor and still sat on the town council. The whole Christmas Town thing had been his idea in the first place. Under his guidance the town was thriving and the residents prospering. The Yuletide Inn was an important part of Rudolph’s year-round-Christmas image. Not only that, but Jack and he had been friends for many years. When Jack married Grace, Mom and the new Mrs. Olsen had bonded instantly.

  “He’s going to come to his senses one day,” Dad said over the phone, “and look around him and see that his son has destroyed everything he worked for.”

  “Not everything,” I said, trying to be optimistic. “He still has Grace. And their home. Gord’s not planning to sell the cottage, I hope, along with the gardens.”

  “Gord did have enough sense to assure her they’ll be able to keep the cottage. Although, come to think of it, it was Irene who said that.”

  “What about Irene? Maybe you and Grace can talk to her?”

  “I suspect Irene’s behind all this, Merry. She’s supporting Gord if not outright encouraging him. They stand to make a lot of money from the sale of a good chunk of the property as well as the deal with Fine Budget.”

  “Not to mention implementing efficiencies,” I muttered.

  “Any money gained will be Grace and Jack’s, of course. But Gord’s Jack’s only child and Grace has no children of her own. Jack’s had two heart attacks and Grace has had cancer . . .” Dad’s voice trailed off.

  “The hotel will still be there, just under a new name.” I was trying to sound optimistic. It wasn’t easy.

  “Fine Budget Yuletide,” Dad said. “I can’t wait.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  Chapter 4

  No matter how good the food promised to be, I was not looking forward to another meal at the Yuletide Inn.

  I could only hope Gord and Irene had the presence of mind to stay away from our group, although diplomacy and respect for other people’s feelings didn’t seem to be Gord’s strong suit.

  I arrived precisely on time. I’d decided to make up for my sartorial faux pas the last time I’d dined here and dressed carefully in one of the few remaining outfits from my earlier life among the big names in the New York City magazine world. I wore a red knee-length dress with sleeves cut to the elbow, a deeply scooped neckline outlined in black, and a thin black belt. I added a rope of pearls that had been a birthday gift from my ex-almost-fiancé (the cheating rat!) and matching teardrop earrings. As I was driving directly to the inn, and I knew the walkways would be sanded and shoveled, I slipped on a pair of black shoes with killer heels rather than practical, but ugly, winter boots. I’d bought the shoes in Manhattan in a mad splurge after I’d found out my boyfriend had gotten engaged to another woman. I’d needed to do something to make myself feel attractive and desirable, not like the dumped, ex-girlfriend I was. The shoes cost way more than I could afford and they hurt my feet like crazy, but they sure did make me feel good.

  Then, ignoring Mattie’s plaintive whines (and that wasn’t easy), I sailed out the door. My stomach was in knots, whether at the idea of encountering Gord and Irene or having dinner with Alan Anderson, I didn’t know. Mom had said she was going to invite him, but I hadn’t heard if he’d accepted.

  The parking lot of the inn was satisfyingly full. I switched off the engine and sat in my car for a few moments. The inn was such a perfect picture of Christmas, it could have been used in a backdrop to a Currier and Ives print. The wide, sweeping driveway was lined by snow-covered pines, a huge fresh wreath hung on the front door, lights glimmered in the gabled windows and shone on piles of fresh snow while smoke rose from the stone chimney. This view was regularly featured in ads promoting Rudolph. Couldn’t Gord see what a prosperous, successful place this was? Why did he have to change it?

  Maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn’t about implementing efficiencies or turning a larger profit, but about wanting to undo his father’s legacy. Maybe Gord just thought he could do better.

  I got out of the car and turned at a man’s shout.

  “Merry!” Russ Durham, the editor in chief of the Rudolph Gazette, was loping across the parking lot toward me. He looked particularly handsome tonight dressed in a good suit and perfectly knotted tie. Russ was on his own. I figured he must have let his date out at the restaurant doors.

  “Are you here for dinner?” I said with a tinge of what I refused to think might be jealousy.

  “Yup. Good timing, too. I can escort you in.”

  “I’m meeting my parents.”

  “I know. Nice of your mom to invite me.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. “She did?”

  “I called Noel for a statement about rumored changes at the Yuletide and your mom yelled at him to let me know they were dining with Grace Olsen tonight. I decided to take that as an invitation.”

  “A statement?”

  “The whole town’s talking about nothing other than Gord Olsen, mysterious visitors speaking in subdued tones and carrying briefcases and laptops, and other mysterious visitors with hard hats and surveying equipment, measuring the property.” Russ shook his head. His deep, slow and sexy Louisiana accent gave his tone extra weight. “I don’t have to tell you, Merry, the whole town’s in an uproar.”

  “What did Dad have to say?”

  “That the affairs of the Yuletide Inn are for Jack and Grace Olsen and their heirs to discuss as they see fit. Same thing he’s been telling everyone who expects him to do something. In the absence of a mayor, everyone’s looking to Noel for leadership.”

  “Dad didn’t run for mayor again because he didn’t want the responsibility anymore.”

  “He’s got it, whether he wants it or not.” Russ took my arm. “And whether Sue-Anne Morrow wants him to have it or not. Let’s go in. But first, ca
n I say you look absolutely breathtaking tonight? Love the shoes.” He winked.

  The others were already seated when Russ and I arrived. Alan got to his feet with a smile. The smile faded when he saw Russ, who’d momentarily stopped to greet a group of diners, catch up to me. I wasn’t sure if it was because he thought Russ was my date or he just wasn’t feeling friendly toward the newspaperman. It was a toss-up between Alan and Russ as to who was the handsomest. They were both tall and fit and lean. Alan had sparkling blue eyes, curly blond hair, and slow, gentle mannerisms. Russ was darker with short-cropped black hair and serious hazel eyes that were always watching everyone and everything. Tonight Alan wore a wool sweater in shades of oatmeal over a blue button-down shirt. My dad greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. His sweater this evening was red with a Santa face appliquéd to the front and numerous multicolored lightbulbs, battery operated, sewn into Santa’s hat. I guessed Mom had ordered him to switch the light display off in the restaurant. My mother did not go for ostentatious displays of holiday ornamentation. She was, as usual, a knockout in a simple (although not simply tailored or priced) black suit.

  My mother directed me to the chair between Russ and Alan.

  An embarrassment of riches.

  To my surprise, and relief, the evening went well. As I have said, Mom and Grace are excellent hostesses, and they managed to control the conversation so it stayed away from gossip about the future of the inn. Grace had only a light salad, but Mom and I dug into the delicious seafood pasta. Russ and Alan each had a plate of ribs, and Dad’s steak was served bloodred, the way he liked it.

  The waiter was clearing our entrée plates when Grace tapped her lips with her napkin and laid it beside her place. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I am dreadfully tired. Will you excuse me if I leave before you’re finished?” I had to admit, she didn’t look well. The strain of the past week was showing in the delicate skin of her face.

  The three men pushed back their chairs and leapt to their feet.

  “Not at all,” Dad said. “I understand how exhausting all this must be for you. Let me walk you to your door.”

  “You don’t . . .”

  “No,” Dad said, “but I’d like to.”

  Grace stood up. “That would be nice. Please, everyone, stay and finish your dinner. You’ll want coffee, and I’m sure Mark has something wonderful on the dessert menu.”

  “Won’t say no to that,” Russ said with a smile.

  My dad took Grace’s arm and they walked out of the restaurant. Grace’s back was straight and her head high but she was leaning on my dad’s arm for more than appearances.

  “She’s a strong woman,” Alan said.

  “She’s going to have to be,” Russ said. “I hear Jack’s being released from the hospital tomorrow. He’s still showing no interest in what’s happening with the inn and the property?”

  “No,” Mom said with a sigh. “Grace is simply beside herself. It’s as much her business as Jack’s, although because she married him after it was a successful operation she has no legal claim to it.”

  “She has a moral claim,” Alan said.

  “Unfortunately, morality has no place in business,” Mom said. “Gord and that wife of his have dollar signs dancing before their eyes. I’m not going to have dessert, but you gentlemen please go ahead. I’m going to indulge in a brandy this evening.”

  We opened our dessert menus. Gingerbread cake was noticeably absent from the list of choices. Alan ordered the candy cane cheesecake and Russ asked for old-fashioned plum pudding with brandy sauce. I didn’t want dessert, and, as I was driving, I had only a coffee.

  My cup was empty, the dessert plates had been scraped clean, and Mom was taking her last sip of brandy when her sequined evening bag began to sing the “Drinking Song” from La Traviata. A text from Dad.

  “Excuse me. Terribly rude, but I need to see what Noel wants.” Mom pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen. She let out a long sigh.

  Russ’s and Alan’s eyebrows rose.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Your dad’s gone home. He wants me to continue to enjoy my evening and have you drop me off. He must have had a talk with Grace and found it upsetting.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I hear,” Alan said, “the Muddites are excited about the potential transformation of the inn into a second-rate hotel.”

  “Why?” Russ asked. “They have a handful of cheap motels over there, but nothing to rival the Yuletide.”

  “To the Muddites,” I said, “everything is a zero-sum game. If we lose, they win.”

  The neighboring town of Muddle Harbor was our archrival. At least that’s how they saw it. As far as the Muddites were concerned, if Rudolph failed, all those shoppers and hotel guests would flock to spend their money in their miserable, run-down, hardscrabble town.

  Mom stood up abruptly. Alan and Russ scrambled to follow. They spoke at the same time.

  “Are you okay to drive, Merry?”

  “Let me take you and your mom home.”

  I grinned at them both. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  It was getting late, and the restaurant crowd was thinning out. The lobby was empty, and outside all was quiet.

  “Good night,” Mom said as we stood on the front steps. It had stopped snowing and the fresh fall shimmered in the warm lights of the hotel.

  “That was a lovely evening, Mrs. Wilkinson.”

  “Thank you for inviting me, Aline.”

  We headed across the lot toward my car. Mom and me and our two charming escorts. I’d noticed the men giving each other suspicious sideways glances. Rivals for my affections? It was a nice thought.

  “I have always loved these gardens. Your father and I had our wedding reception here.” Mom’s voice was soft and dreamy.

  “I know that.”

  “It was in winter. A night as beautiful as this one. It would have been nice to have had a Christmas wedding, but I was singing Tosca at La Scala all of December. We had the ceremony in January. It was a small wedding. My parents and sister, some of my friends from the opera world. Your dad’s family and his close friends.”

  “It sounds lovely,” Russ said.

  “It was. It was. We stayed here, at the inn, on our wedding night. Jack was married to Karen then. I never liked Karen much; she had a poisonous tongue in her mouth. Whether spreading the muck about the guests at the inn or snapping at Jack for some supposed slight, she never had a kind word to say about anyone. It was widely rumored he was having multiple affairs over the course of their marriage. Eventually, Karen left and Jack married Grace. I feared the pattern of infidelity would continue, but there’s never been so much as a whisper. They’ve been very happy together.

  “As have Noel and I. After our guests had left or gone to their own rooms, your father and I went for a walk in the gardens. On a night just like this one.” Mom drifted away. Russ and Alan and I exchanged glances and followed her. My Manhattan revenge-shopping-spree shoes were hardly suitable for walking in the snow, but the paths meandering through the gardens had been recently shoveled. Colored lights dusted with snow sparkled in the trees. From the parking lot, we heard a woman laugh, car doors slam shut, and an engine start. The car drove away. Then all fell as wonderfully quiet as it can be only after a fresh snowfall.

  My mom turned and faced us. Flakes fell from the branches of the trees onto her dark hair. Her eyes danced and she looked thirty years younger as memories flooded over her. She lifted up her arms and threw back her head. I glanced at the two men on either side of me. They were both smiling. No one had said a word since we passed our cars.

  A shout broke the silence of the winter night.

  It was followed by a single cry, cut short, and then a low moan. I heard the sound of footsteps breaking through hard-packed snow and saw a dim, wavering light moving rapidl
y away from us.

  “What’s happening there?” Russ called.

  “Is everyone all right?” Alan shouted.

  Silence.

  Two iPhone flashlight apps switched on, flooding the path in white light.

  “We’re going to have a look,” Russ said to me. “Merry, you and Aline wait here.”

  The men stepped off the path. I followed them, and my mom followed me. Snow spilled over the rims of my high-heeled shoes. We passed through a small grove of oak trees, the naked skeletal limbs reaching for our faces, branches poking through our hair. I shivered. Mom took my arm. In a few steps we emerged into a small clearing. A marble statue of a woman, draped in classic stone robes, stood at the center of the glade. In the summer she poured a bucket of water into a small pool at her feet. In the winter, she wore a crown of holiday lights with additional lights wrapped around her long, graceful neck. Russ stopped walking so abruptly I crashed into the back of him. My mom squeezed my arm and let out a soft cry.

  “What the . . . ?” Alan said.

  Russ moved and I could see. The statue stood still and serene, no water spilled from her pail, and the surface of the pool was covered in a blanket of snow. But tonight this was not a place of peaceful contemplation. The lights adorning the statue showed a man lying on his back in the pool, a patch of green holly dotted with red berries resting on his dark jacket. As my eyes became accustomed to the shifting light, I could see that the red wasn’t berries but rapidly spreading liquid. The handle of a knife protruded from the center of the ring of holly.