by Vicki Delany
The shop happened to be busy at that moment, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look. Mom waved the paper at me. “I’m going to sue.”
I grabbed her arm. “Whatever it is, not here,” I whispered. I dragged her into what in my more prideful moments I think of as my office. It is, in fact, a room with a desk, a computer, overflow storage, staff coat closet, and the place where we keep cleaning equipment. I slammed the door behind us.
There isn’t room for more than one chair in my office/broom closet, and I gestured to my mom to take it. She dropped into the seat and thrust the paper at me. It was, as I had feared, the Muddle Harbor Chronicle. The entire top half of the front page showed a grainy black-and-white picture of my parents. My dad had his head down, beard buried in his chest, while Mom scowled at the camera. She had been caught in the act of lifting her hand, but too late to block the shot. If you squinted, you could make out the words “Rudolph Police Station” over the door in the background. Dad looked like a New York City street person arrested for panhandling, and Mom could have been about to go onstage to sing one of the witches’ parts in the opera version of Macbeth.
As awful as the picture was, the headline was worse: “Rudolph’s Wilkinson Questioned in Brutal Murder.”
“Oh dear,” I said. If a photographer from the Chronicle had been at the Rudolph police station in the middle of the night, someone had to have tipped him off.
“This is a disaster!” Mom wailed.
“Pay no attention to the Chronicle,” I said. “No one reads that rag.”
“Someone might,” she moaned. “I am having nightmares thinking of more than one of my rivals pinning that picture to mirrors in their dressing rooms and enjoying a good laugh.”
“I’m sure they’ve had unflattering pictures taken of them, too. Never mind that. What happened last night? They let Dad go, right? So that’s good.”
She sighed. “That odious Detective Simmonds was ensconced in the interview room with your father for a long time. They made me wait in the front lobby and wouldn’t let me so much as pop in to tell him I was there. Everyone who came in and out of the police station pretended they didn’t recognize me. It was quite possibly the most humiliating experience of my life. Other than that incident when the stagehand at Covent Garden . . .”
“Mom! Stick to the point.”
“The point. Yes. All Noel would tell me when they finally let him go home was that Detective Simmonds made him admit he had threatened Gord, as Irene said he had. Noel assured her it was nothing but words. Everyone says things like that at some time or another when under pressure. I’ve been known to do so myself. All I can say is, it’s a good thing that Covent Garden stagehand didn’t turn up dead the following morning, I can tell you.”
“Moving on, Mom. Simmonds must have had some other reason for wanting to . . . talk to dad. . . .” I avoided using the word “interrogate.” My mom might seem flighty sometimes, not to mention self-absorbed, but my parents’ devotion to each other was rock solid. She was dressed as perfectly as always this afternoon in a black wool coat, black faux-fur hat, black boots, and red leather gloves, but her deep red lipstick had slipped at a corner of her mouth, and she’d forgotten to apply mascara to one eye.
“Simmonds was interested in hearing every detail of his movements last night. Noel told her he walked Grace to her door. The normal number of people, staff and hotel guests as well as diners, were about. Grace offered him a drink, but he refused as he was driving home. They chatted for a few minutes, and he left. The conversation with Grace about the future of the inn had depressed him, and he didn’t feel like coming back to dinner with us and making polite conversation. He decided to simply go on home, knowing I could get a ride with you.”
“Did something happen in the talk with Grace?”
“I asked him. Grace told Noel that Gord threatened to destroy everything she and Jack had built. Not everyone knows this, but Grace is very much the one in charge at the hotel. She lets Jack pretend he’s the boss, but all the important decisions are made by her. The business has grown by leaps and bounds since she’s been doing so. You can imagine how upset she was when this . . . interloper shoved his way in and told her she’s not needed.”
I could imagine, all right. I said nothing, but my mind raced. Might Grace have followed Gord into the garden? Maybe she’d phoned him after my dad left and suggested they meet to talk things over. She would have had time to change into her nightclothes and pretend to be relaxing before we showed up at her door. I couldn’t see Grace throwing my dad under the bus, though.
“Don’t even think it,” Mom said.
“Think what?”
“That Grace killed Gord.”
“I wasn’t,” I squeaked. How did she do that? Like the time I was only thinking of snatching a cookie off the baking tray and she smacked my hand. “I don’t suppose Dad can prove he went straight home when he said he did?”
Mom shook her head. “Not unless someone specifically saw him driving away from the hotel.”
“Look, if Simmonds doesn’t have anything more on Dad than that, there’s nothing to worry about. Half the town of Rudolph wanted Gord dead. Simmonds will have more than enough suspects. It’s just that Dad’s name came up last night, that’s all.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that miserable Irene did it herself. She seems like the type to me.”
I wasn’t sure what type that was, but I didn’t bother to ask. “The best thing you and Dad can do now is go about your business. Pretend everything is A-OK. By the way, do you know you’re only wearing one earring?”
She screeched and lifted both hands to her head. Finding one earlobe empty, she slipped the lone gold hoop out and dropped it into her bag. “My mind was elsewhere this morning.”
“It’ll be okay, Mom. You’ll see.”
“Simmonds told Noel he isn’t to leave town.”
That didn’t sound good, I thought, but didn’t mention it. “What did Dad have to say to that?”
“He has no plans to go anywhere. Where else would Santa be at Christmas than in Christmas Town?”
“He said that to Simmonds?”
“Yes.”
“He isn’t really Santa Claus, you know.”
“I am aware of that, Merry. And so, I can assure you, is your father. I believe he was making a joke. Detective Simmonds doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor.”
“Go home, Mom. Try to relax. Don’t worry, everything will work out fine.”
She gave me a small smile as she got to her feet. “That’s what I keep telling your father.”
“I have one question.” I pointed to the newspaper. “Who took that photo?”
Mom shook her head. “Some lowlife member of the fourth estate, I would imagine. I didn’t get a look at him. It was dark and then a blinding light hit my eyes.”
“It was a man?”
Mom thought. “I don’t know that it matters, but I think so. He hurried away after taking the picture, and he had that wide-legged slouched way of walking young men these days have. No doubt because they can’t keep their pants up.” She sniffed in disapproval and left my office.
I heard Mom say good-bye to Jackie, and the chimes over the door tinkle. Only when I was sure Mom was gone did I drop into my chair and put my head in my hands. What a mess.
Diane Simmonds was new to Rudolph. She’d been a cop in Chicago for a long time and apparently wanted to give small-town life a try. I’d seen her working before, and thought she was intelligent and competent. But I didn’t know how police minds worked. If she had a suspect—meaning my dad—how hard would she try to find other suspects? To find, I reminded myself, the real killer. My dad was as kind, gentle, and loving as you’d expect from someone known as Santa Claus. He didn’t even kill flies that got into the house, but guided them back outside.
I tried
to look at the situation from the police perspective. Means, motive, opportunity. Wasn’t that what the cops looked for in mystery novels? My dad seemed to have had all three. Means: a knife. Insignificant. Anyone could get hold of a knife. Motive: Dad was furious at Gord. Also insignificant: So was everyone else in Rudolph. Opportunity: In that one Dad stood out. He’d been at the hotel around the time Gord died, wandering the grounds by himself.
My dad hadn’t killed anyone, and if Simmonds thought he had, then it might be up to me to prove him innocent. Dad was so cheerfully optimistic he probably thought helping the police with their inquiries meant just that. Being a good, helpful citizen.
I thought back over the events of the past week since Jack’s heart attack and the arrival of Gord and Irene. Problem was, I had too many suspects. I glanced at my watch. It was coming up to three. I hadn’t even had lunch yet.
“I’m going to Vicky’s,” I said to Jackie. “Want me to bring you back anything?”
“Peanut butter square,” she said, not bothering to look up from her magazine. The store was empty. All the shoppers who’d been here when Mom made her theatrical entrance had left, as if they were extras called to stand onstage at the right moment. Even a week before Christmas, Mondays were slow in the store. I expected business to pick up throughout the week, culminating in the big children’s party the town had planned for Saturday and Sunday. There’d be skating on the bay, a snow sculpture contest (judged by age group) in the park, a concert at the bandstand, clowns and magicians in the streets, and hot dogs and hot chocolate served outside the shops on Jingle Bell Lane. Santa would be in attendance with a full accompaniment of high school kids playing elves and Alan Anderson in his toymaker persona.
I’d gotten in extra orders of Alan’s wooden soldiers and train sets, hoping the parents would be inspired by their kids’ love of Christmas to get one last gift.
Maybe two.
And something for themselves while they were at it.
I headed up Jingle Bell Lane toward Victoria’s Bake Shoppe at a rapid clip. They closed at three, but Vicky could usually be persuaded to find something in the back of the shelves for me. Thick gray clouds hung low in the sky and the wind was sharp and cold. I buried my gloved hands deeper in my pockets. Everyone in town was keeping an eye on the weather. The forecast for Friday, the day before the children’s party, was for increasing temperatures, and on Saturday they were calling for—horrors—freezing rain.
I ran up the bakery steps. The sign had already been flipped to “Closed,” and I could see Marjorie inside sweeping the floor.
I knocked. She looked up, scowled, and tapped her watch. I put on my pleading face. She put down the broom and unlocked the door.
“Whew!” I said. “Just made it.”
“We’re closed. And we’re all out.”
“You must have something left over.” I scanned the rack of shelves behind the counter. Clean, bare wood eyed me back. “Soup? A muffin or scone?” I sniffed unobtrusively. The scent of pastries baking and soup bubbling lingered in the air, but only as a faint residue. The countertops were scrubbed clean and the floor swept. Chairs were upside down on the tables. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Two minutes to three. “Why are you closed early? Where’s Vicky?”
Marjorie let out a long puff and jerked her head toward the back.
“What’s going on?”
“That detective woman’ll be here soon. Vicky thought it best to close up.”
“I am expecting,” Vicky said, coming out of the kitchen, “a visit from the police shortly. Simmonds was, thank heavens, polite enough to call and make an appointment, so I wouldn’t have to talk to her in front of a room full of customers.” Vicky’d taken off her apron and wore baggy jeans with numerous holes and patches and a summery blue T-shirt. Her spiky black hair was freshly brushed, the long front lock of purple falling over her right eye. The rows of silver earrings through her ears caught the light.
“Why?” I asked.
“I do not want to find out. I can only imagine it has something to do with Gord Olsen. No loss to anyone.”
“That seems to be the common sentiment.”
Vicky shrugged. “I don’t know what it has to do with me. You might as well go home now, Aunt Marjorie.”
“I’ll stay, dear. In case you need moral support.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
Marjorie tried not to grimace. Moral support, to Vicky’s relatives, meant reporting back to the family. She went to get her coat, and when she left the bakery, Marjorie passed Diane Simmonds coming in.
“You again,” the detective said to me.
“Me again.”
“You seem to always be at the heart of things in Rudolph, Merry. Like your father.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your dad’s a big man around here. The unofficial mayor, everyone tells me. Number one mover and shaker. Santa Claus.”
“My father plays Santa Claus on occasion.” I rushed to his defense. “People respect him. And so they should. My dad’s the one who saved this town from falling into a postindustrial slump like so many others around here. He had the idea of taking advantage of the name of Rudolph and becoming a year-round Christmas Town.” I didn’t bother to give her a history lesson—how the first plan for the revitalization of Rudolph had centered on the War of 1812 heroics of the founder of the town. That idea had quickly been shelved when researchers discovered he’d been a British spy all along.
“With a name like Noel and that beard and belly and those twinkling blue eyes, who better to be Santa?” Vicky said.
“The town’s important to your father,” Simmonds said to me.
“Yes, it is. I’d say . . .” Just in time I saw the trap opening up in front of me. “I’d say it’s no more important to him than it is to anyone else who lives here. If you must know, my parents are thinking of moving to the city in the summer. Mom’s had an offer to teach voice lessons at a school of dramatic arts, and . . .”
“Really?” Vicky said. “I hadn’t heard that. I can’t imagine your dad ever leaving Rudolph. All those years your mom was on tour or singing at the Met, he stayed here and raised you kids and . . .” Finally, Vicky noticed the frantic signals crossing my face. She snapped her mouth shut.
We smiled at Detective Simmonds. She had the grace not to smile back, but if she had I’m sure it would have resembled the cat who found the cream pitcher left out on the kitchen counter. “I haven’t forgotten that I need to talk to you, Merry. I’ll come around to your shop when I’m finished here.”
“I’m here now,” I said helpfully. “Why don’t you speak to Vicky and me together? Save you wasting your time on two interviews.”
“It’s my time to waste.” She opened the door. She did not smile.
“Call me as soon as you’re done,” I said to Vicky.
“Will do.”
I left.
I never did get lunch.
Rachel McIntosh waylaid me when I passed Candy Cane Sweets. “Merry, what’s happening? I saw that awful policewoman going into Vicky’s.”
“Routine inquiries,” I said.
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know about routine. I heard your father was arrested.”
“He was not! Who told you that?”
“I don’t remember. Might have been Sue-Anne.”
I ground my teeth. That blasted Sue-Anne. My dad didn’t even want to be mayor again, but she simply wouldn’t believe him. “He was at the hotel last night at the time in question. Naturally Simmonds wanted to talk to him, to ask if he’d seen anything out of the ordinary. That’s all.”
Rachel nodded. “They say Gord Olsen was murdered. Stabbed.”
“So they say.”
“What do you think’s going to happen with the inn? I mean, the deal with Fine Budget and Mega-Mart?”
“Gee, Rachel, why are you asking me? I have no idea.”
“Everyone’s talking about it, Merry. People need to know.” Rachel threw a quick glance up and down the street. No one was approaching us. “My money’s on Grace. And I don’t blame her one little bit, the way that Gord marched in and began taking over.”
“I hope you aren’t telling people that,” I said. “Particularly not the police.”
She sniffed. “Just my opinion. I’m only telling you because you were there. Or so they say.”
“So they say.” I continued walking.
* * *
“Are you expecting someone, Merry?” Jackie asked.
“No! Why are you asking?”
“Because you jump every time the bell rings and you keep looking out the window, that’s why.”
“Oh. Detective Simmonds said she might pop around later this afternoon to talk to me about the events of yesterday.”
“That’s no reason to be nervous. Unless you did it.” Jackie laughed uproariously at her own joke. I did not join in.
It was coming up on four thirty. As well as peeking out the window, I kept checking my phone in case Vicky called. That she hadn’t must have meant she was still ensconced with Simmonds.
“You can leave now,” I said to Jackie.
“I’m scheduled to work until five today.”
“My treat.”
“Wow, a whole half hour off. Are you not wanting any witnesses or something when the cops arrive? Wouldn’t you be better off if I stayed? Kyle figures it was some sort of gang thing. The mob’s big in construction, you know. Maybe Gord did something they didn’t like, tried to cheat them or something.”
“That’s a possibility,” I said, cheering up. “Kyle should mention it to the police.”
“Kyle tries to have as little to do with the cops as possible.”
That didn’t surprise me. But I had no time to reflect on what differences Jackie’s chronically underemployed boyfriend and the officers of the law might have. My phone chirped to tell me I had a text.
