by Vicki Delany
It was Gord Olsen and he had been stabbed through the heart.
Chapter 5
Alan jumped onto the surface of the frozen pool while Russ dialed 911. My mom and I stood together, watching, feeling completely useless.
“I think he’s dead,” Alan said. “Tell them I can’t find a pulse.”
“Ambulance and police are on the way,” Russ said. “The operator is telling us to be aware of our surroundings.”
Mom gasped and we clutched each other.
“Aline and Merry, get back to the hotel,” Russ said.
“No,” Alan said. “Whoever did this might still be out there. We need to stay together until help arrives.”
Mom squeezed my hand so hard I thought it might break. I glanced around. The dark trees, the falling snow, the deep shadows. The empty eyes of the watching statue were cast down, her cheerful holiday lights so dreadfully out of place.
“The operator says not to try to remove the knife,” Russ said.
I felt my mom sway. “Mom needs to sit down,” I said.
Russ whipped off his coat and spread it out on a carved stone bench. I guided my mother to it and helped her sit, giving Russ a nod of thanks.
Alan, Russ, and I looked at one another. Then Russ hung up on the 911 operator and began taking pictures with his phone.
“What are you doing?” I shouted. “Don’t you dare take a picture of me or my mom.”
“A good reporter’s always working,” Russ said, leaning over the pool to snap a shot.
“Freakin’ ghoulish,” Alan said. “If I’m in one of those pictures I’ll sue you for all you’re worth. I am Santa’s toymaker, you know.”
“Give me some credit.” Russ swung the phone toward me.
I shrieked and covered my face with my hands.
“Just kidding,” he said.
“Not laughing,” I replied.
We let out a collective sigh of relief as the sound of sirens fast approaching reached us. Soon, strong lights were coming through the trees, and Russ, Alan, and I shouted, “Over here!”
Two uniformed officers broke into the clearing. They were followed by EMTs laden down with equipment. One of the paramedics climbed over the low stone wall into the pool while the other spoke into her radio.
“VSA,” the first one called to his partner. Vital signs absent.
“Officer,” I said, “I need to take my mother inside. Can we leave?”
“Wait in the hotel,” he grunted. “All of you. The detective’s on her way. She’ll want to talk to you.”
“Okay.” I helped my mother to her feet.
“Campbell,” the cop shouted. I wasn’t particularly happy to see the round, pale face of my old high school nemesis, Officer Candice Campbell, pop out from behind a tree. “Take these people to the hotel. Find them a private room. They’re to talk to no one until the detective sees them. And no talking amongst yourselves, either.”
“I’ll stay here,” Russ said. “Freedom of the press and all that. Rudolph Gazette.”
“You’ll come with me,” Candy snapped. “Like you’ve been told.”
“I guess that’ll be all right,” the other cop said. “For now.”
“Right,” Candy said. “For now.” She shone her Maglite into my face.
“Someone has to tell Irene and Grace what’s happened,” Mom said.
“Who are they?” the cop asked.
“Wife and mother-in-law of the . . . deceased,” Mom said.
“You know who this is?”
“We all do,” I said. “It’s Gordon Olsen. His parents own this hotel.”
“I don’t want you talking to anyone. Let the detective handle it.” The cop nodded to Candy.
“Let’s go,” she grunted in her pretending-to-be-a-tough-guy voice.
We emerged from the gardens into a scene totally different from the one we’d left only minutes earlier. Police cars and an ambulance lined the driveway, throwing flashing blue and red lights onto the snow. An officer was stringing yellow crime scene tape between the trees and bushes. A crowd had gathered on the hotel steps, some of them dressed in pajamas and slippers, wrapped in the hotel’s fluffy white robes. A large police officer stood at the bottom of the steps, his arms crossed and his face set as if daring them to cross the invisible line he’d created.
I scanned faces quickly, but didn’t see Grace or Irene. Grace and Jack’s bedroom was at the back of their cottage, which was behind the hotel. Quite possibly she’d gone to bed and hadn’t heard the uproar.
Escorted by Candy, we climbed the steps and passed through the crowd into the hotel. Everyone stared at us, and someone called out, “Merry, what’s going on here?”
“We need a private room,” Candy snapped at the wide-eyed, openmouthed receptionist. “Stat!”
“No need,” my mother said. “We’ll be quite comfortable over there.” She pointed to the collection of chairs arranged around the fireplace.
“I was told . . .” Candy protested.
“Whatever,” Mom said. “You can join us, if you wish.” She smiled at the receptionist. “Could you ask the kitchen to prepare us a pot of tea, dear? When they have a moment.” She settled herself onto the sofa, the rich brown leather cracked and worn with age. Alan and I took the chintz-covered wingback chairs on either side of her. The chairs were arranged around a low coffee table. Real logs blazed in a huge stone fireplace, and beside it the live Douglas fir glowed as if lit from within. The pretty illuminated Christmas village Jack knocked over when he collapsed had been replaced with a poinsettia.
I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and stretched out my legs. Heat washed over me as the logs burned and spat. The crowd murmured, and Candy might have sworn under her breath.
A sharp pain tore through my right foot. Followed by another. My eyes flew open and I looked down. Only now that they were warming did I remember I was wearing high-heeled pumps and panty hose. My legs were soaked up to the knees. Rapidly melting snow filled the shoes. I kicked the ruined footwear off, consoling myself at their loss by thinking that it served me right for indulging in such a useless bit of extravagance, and stared at the sodden stockings.
“Here.” Mom unraveled her pristine white scarf. “You’d better dry those feet off before you get frostbite.”
“I can’t use that,” I said. I struggled to stand. My feet didn’t seem to want to hold me up, and I tottered. Alan leapt to his feet and grabbed my arm. “Go to the ladies’ room, Merry. Run those feet under warm, but not hot, water.”
“You have to stay here. Where I can see you,” Candy said.
“If she loses her toes to frostbite, do you want her suing the police department?” Alan asked.
I doubted I was in that much danger, but Alan’s threat served its purpose. “Don’t you talk to anyone in there,” Candy shouted after us. With Alan’s help I managed the few steps down the hall.
No one was in the ladies’ room for me to talk to, had I been so inclined. I stripped off my hose, tossed them into the trash, and soaked paper towels in warm water. I sat on one of the stools at the vanity and draped the wet towels around my lower extremities. While the warmth soaked through my skin, I glanced around. The room was decorated like a traditional powder room with rose-patterned wallpaper and upholstered chairs in shades of soft pink. I imagined the ladies of Downton Abbey fixing their hats in such a room. A display of garish holiday decorations ruined the ambience somewhat. Silver tinsel had been draped across the tops of the mirrors, and plastic red and green balls were suspended from the ceiling by gold ribbon. Grace liked to support all the shops in Rudolph, and she’d probably bought these things at the Nook and stuck them away in the bathrooms, where they wouldn’t get too much attention. I stopped criticizing the decor and checked the damp towels on my feet. They felt much better, and after a few minutes I flexed and
wiggled my toes. The pain had gone and I was able to stand.
The door opened and Detective Diane Simmonds came in. “You okay, Merry? Officer Campbell said something about frostbite?”
“Just cold, wet feet,” I said. “I’m fine now. Although I have nothing to wear.” I held up the sodden shoes as evidence. They didn’t look all that sexy anymore.
“I’ve been given to understand that you found the body?”
“So it is a body, then. He’s dead?”
She nodded.
“I was with my mom and Russ Durham and Alan Anderson. We’d had dinner here, in the restaurant, and Mom wanted a walk in the gardens before going home. There we found . . . you know.”
“The officer who was first on the scene said you know the deceased.”
I nodded. “His name’s Gord Olsen. He’s from California, and he and his wife came here when his dad, who owns the inn, suffered a heart attack last week.”
“Had you seen this Gord Olsen earlier this evening?”
I shook my head.
“Did you see anyone else in the garden? Hear anything?”
I tried to remember. “We heard a shout, and then footsteps that might have been someone running away, but they were muffled by the snow. A cry of pain, of fear, maybe.” I lifted my hand to my mouth. “I bet that was Gord.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Not from when we left the hotel until we came across Gord.”
“This shout you heard? Male, female? Might you have recognized the voice?”
I shook my head again. “There were no words. Just a sort of strangled yell. And that was all. It could have been either a man or a woman.”
“Thanks, Merry. I want to speak briefly to your mother and Mr. Anderson, and then you can leave. I’ll get a full statement from you tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
Hotel guests and staff were still standing at the doors and windows watching the activity, but no one had approached the circle around the fireplace. No doubt Officer Candy Campbell, hand on the butt of her gun, face set in determined lines, deterred anyone from asking Mom or Alan what was going on.
Simmonds spoke briefly to my mother and Alan. They answered in low voices, and then Simmonds said we were free to leave. Alan glanced at my bare feet. “Let me see what I can do,” he said.
He spoke to the receptionist; she went into the office and a few minutes later came out with a pair of pink plastic boots covered with purple flowers. “Lost and found,” she said. “Never claimed. I suppose it’ll be okay if you keep them.”
The boots were a shocking contrast to my red dress, but what the heck. Better than losing toes to frostbite. I sat down and pulled them on. They were about three sizes too big.
“Has anyone told Grace what’s happened?” Mom asked.
“Grace is Gord Olsen’s mother?” Simmonds said. “I was going to call on her now.”
“Not his mother, but his stepmother,” Mom said. “His father’s in the hospital recovering from heart surgery. Gord is his only child. This is going to be a terrible blow.”
“His wife’s named Irene,” I added. “They’re staying in the hotel.”
“Did you see Irene Olsen this evening?” Simmonds asked.
“No.”
“Grace is a dear friend of mine. I will accompany you to break the news to her,” Mom said. “As Merry’s driving me home, she can come with us.”
“I can . . .” Alan began.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I’d like to stay with Mom.”
“Let’s do it, then,” Simmonds said. “We’ll speak to Grace Olsen first, as you’re here now. Then I’ll look for Irene.”
The crowd of onlookers parted to let us through. I saw more than a few people I recognized and knew that tomorrow morning, once again Mrs. Claus’s Treasures would be the spot to gather to hear the latest gossip.
* * *
I clomped behind Mom and Detective Simmonds in my giant boots, struggling to keep up. Along the driveway and in the gardens, emergency vehicles and personnel came and went.
“Did your husband not dine with you this evening?” Simmonds asked Mom, her voice drifting behind her in the cold, crisp night air.
“Yes, but he and Jack are old friends, and Noel’s worried about Jack, and all that’s going on here at the inn. He wasn’t in the mood to socialize. He left the table early, at the same time Grace did.”
“Hey!” I sprang forward, tripping over the toes of the boots. I grunted as I stumbled, and my arms windmilled to keep me from falling flat on my face.
Mom and Simmonds turned to check that I was okay. I might have tripped by accident, but I did manage to stop my mom from talking anymore. Detective Diane Simmonds didn’t engage in small talk. My dad and Grace had left the dining room early. Either one of them might have been wandering through the hotel grounds alone at the time in question. Dad would want to help the police if he’d seen anything, but I figured it would be better if he called Simmonds of his own volition.
“I don’t know if you know this,” I said, once I’d caught up to them. “Gord Olsen was not a popular man.”
“What do you mean?” Simmonds asked.
“You’ll have more luck finding someone in Rudolph who wanted to be rid of Gord than anyone who didn’t. He had plans to turn the inn over to a budget chain and sell the gardens to a big-box store. That didn’t make a lot of people in town happy.”
“Is that so?” she said.
“Everyone was upset, and some people were down-and-out angry. Of course,” I hastened to add, “those were just words. No one in Rudolph would actually kill someone to stop a Mega-Mart.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Simmonds said. “Can you name some of these people?”
Vicky’s enraged face flashed before my eyes. “No one in particular,” I said with a casual wave of my hand.
“How about Mrs. Olsen herself?” Simmonds asked. “What did she have to say about her stepson taking over the business?”
“Grace was happy he’d come to help out,” Mom said quickly, “leaving her to concentrate on her husband’s recovery.”
Simmonds gave my mom a long look. And then the detective said, “I guess we’ll just have to ask her, won’t we.”
So much had happened since we left the restaurant it should have been the middle of the night, but when I glanced at my watch, I saw it wasn’t even ten yet. Lights were still on in Grace and Jack’s home.
Simmonds marched up the steps and rapped loudly. I recognized the large wreath on the door. Made of circles of brightly colored balls, it had been bought at my shop. Mom and I exchanged nervous glances.
The door opened, and Grace peeked out. She was ready for bed: face scrubbed, jewelry removed, wearing ivory satin pajamas and a matching dressing gown. She looked questioningly at Simmonds and then saw us. “Aline. Is something the matter?”
“Mrs. Olsen, I am Detective Diane Simmonds of Rudolph PD. May I come in for a few minutes?” She made the request sound like a question, but I knew it wasn’t.
Grace’s hands flew to her chest. Her eyes opened in fear and she took a step back.
Mom read her friend’s face. “Jack’s fine. We’re not here about Jack.”
The flash of panic faded, and Grace lowered her hands. “Come in, please. Has something happened at the hotel? A theft from one of the rooms? It has been known to happen, although not very often.” She led the way into the comfortable living room.
Simmonds didn’t pause to take off her Uggs, and Mom didn’t remove her ankle boots, so I clomped after them in my pink and purple boots. Melting snow on her hardwood floors would be the least of Grace’s concerns tonight.
A single lamp burned behind a chair. A cup of tea, steam rising, and a hardcover book sat on the side table. The white lights of the tree glowed in a corner, the gas fireplac
e burned cheerfully, and a Christmas choral concert was playing on the Bose speakers. The curtains across the French doors were closed against the night.
We stood awkwardly in the center of the room. “Would you like . . .” Grace began.
“You have a stepson by the name of Gord Olsen?” Simmonds said.
“Why, yes. Jack’s son by his first marriage.” Grace looked at my mom, her face a picture of confusion. “Aline, what is going on? Is Gord in some sort of trouble?”
“I have to tell you, Mrs. Olsen, Gord was found dead earlier this evening,” Simmonds said.
“Gord. Dead?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“That’s still to be determined,” Simmonds said.
“Grace, dear, I am so sorry,” Mom said.
“I’d prefer it if you leave it to me to break the news to my husband,” Grace said. “He’s in the hospital recovering from heart surgery. I’ll visit first thing tomorrow and let him know.”
“We can do that,” Simmonds said.
Grace gathered her dressing gown around her and sat down. She took a sip of tea. “Is there some question of the hotel being at fault?”
“Not as far as I’m aware at this time,” Simmonds said.
“Thank you for coming to tell me,” Grace said. “You can show yourselves out.”
“Grace!” Mom said. “Didn’t you hear what the detective said?”
“I heard her perfectly well. Gord is dead. I’m surprised you think I’d be upset, Aline. You know I don’t believe in false sentiment. He was a thoroughly nasty little man. My only concern right now is for Jack, and it’s too late to go to the hospital. Jack loved his son very much, despite all his faults. This will come as a terrible shock. I assume Gord had a heart attack? Quite ironic when you think of it.” She took another sip of her tea.
“Not a heart attack, no,” Simmonds said. “Although his heart did stop beating. Your stepson was knifed, Mrs. Olsen. Murdered. Not all that far from this very room. Do you have anything to say about that?”
The blood drained from Grace’s face in an instant. Her teacup hit the floor, and liquid spread across the hardwood. “Murdered! You can’t be serious. Who would do such a thing?”
