We Wish You a Murderous Christmas

by Vicki Delany

Vicky: Incoming. Call me when she’s done.

  A minute later the chimes over the door tinkled merrily, and Detective Simmonds herself walked into the shop. “I’m sorry I didn’t get around to you earlier, Merry. It’s been quite a day.”

  “This morning’s paper said you were about to make an arrest,” Jackie said. “Who is it?”

  Simmonds gave her a cool look. “The papers say a lot of things. Occasionally they even get it right. But not often. Shall we go into your office, Merry?”

  “There’s not much room in there. I’ll close the shop early. We finish at five on Mondays anyway, and it’s almost that now. Good night, Jackie.”

  Jackie seemed to take a particularly long time getting her outerwear on and preparing to take her leave. Simmonds browsed through my shop. “As I’ve noticed before, you have some lovely things here.”

  “Thank you.”

  She studied a train display on the toy table. The tiny tracks, engine, cars, and caboose were made of wood, lovingly handcrafted by Alan Anderson. She picked up the bright red caboose and turned it over. “Nice.”

  “Yes.”

  “You sell a lot of locally made goods.”

  “I try to. Some things I bring in from the city but I source locally whenever I can. I want to support the town, and that’s what the visitors to my shop want to buy.”

  “Would I be right in guessing you’re not too worried about a Mega-Mart opening a couple of miles down the road?”

  “They wouldn’t be competition for me, if that’s what you mean, but it would be bad news for many other shops.”

  “Like the one next door?”

  “You mean the Nook? Probably. Mega-Mart would stock the same stuff Betty does and sell it cheaper.”

  “Betty is Betty Thatcher, owner of Rudolph’s Gift Nook?”

  “She wouldn’t be the only one in trouble,” I said. “Most of Jingle Bell Lane, like Main Streets all over America, is threatened by big-box stores.”

  Simmonds moved on. She studied the jewelry display. She picked up a pair of Crystal’s earrings. They were silver, the delicate threads forming a triangular tree shape. Simmonds read the price tag and let out a low whistle. “Forty-five bucks.”

  “Handmade.”

  “No competition from Mega-Mart, but turning the Yuletide Inn into a Fine Budget might cut down on the sort of customers who can afford to pay almost fifty bucks for seasonal jewelry.”

  “So what?” Jackie said, coming out of the back and pulling on her gloves. “Business is business. One store closes, another opens.”

  “Some people might not see it that way,” Simmonds said.

  “Whatever. Kyle thinks a Mega-Mart would be great. He’s going to apply for a job with the construction firm if it goes ahead. See you tomorrow, Merry.”

  We watched Jackie leave. Simmonds turned to me. “Apparently not everyone in Rudolph is opposed to Gord Olsen’s plans.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Tell me about last night, Merry. Everything you can remember from the time you finished dinner until the police arrived.”

  I rounded the counter and plopped onto Jackie’s stool. Simmonds stood in the center of the floor with her feet planted and arms crossed. I spoke slowly and chose my words carefully. I’d left the restaurant with my mom, Russ Durham, and Alan Anderson. Mom wanted a stroll in the gardens. We heard what sounded like an argument, someone shouted, someone else cried out, and we heard a person running away. We found Gord and called 911. That was all.

  “Last night you said you couldn’t tell if the people you heard arguing were men or women, and you didn’t recognize the voices. Is that still the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “You heard two distinct voices?”

  “I think so. I can’t really be sure. Have you spoken to Alan and Russ?”

  “I have. As well as your mother.”

  “What did they say?”

  She didn’t grace that question with a reply, but cocked her head at me. “Did you make out any of the words?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the vicinity of the hotel gardens?”

  “No. Not a soul.”

  “But a lot of people go there?”

  “It’s very popular, even in winter. Grace does a beautiful job of decorating it for the holidays. Family groups like to skate on the pond and make snowmen on the lawns. Hey, I bet you got footprints, right? Nothing like snow for leaving footprints. What’d they tell you?”

  “That a lot of people walked in the garden since the last snowfall. You and your friends, I hate to say, trampled the area up thoroughly.”

  “We were trying to help a man.”

  She lifted one hand. “Just saying. We took several good impressions leading away from the statue where you found Olsen. Winter boots, mass-produced brand, the sort both men and women wear. Average size.”

  “Is that going to help you?”

  “Impressions are meaningless with nothing to compare them with.”

  “Where did the prints lead you?”

  “Into the parking lot. Where they completely disappeared amongst all the traffic coming and going, both vehicular and foot. The owner of the boots might have gotten into a car and driven away. They might have taken a shortcut to the paths to the hotel, which are well shoveled. I’m going to show you something, Merry. Please tell me if you recognize it.”

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic envelope containing a photograph. I braced myself, expecting to see Gord Olsen’s dead body. But I need not have worried; it was only a picture of a knife. A perfectly ordinary-looking knife, the sort you’d find in any kitchen. I swallowed. “I assume that’s what was used to murder Gord.”

  She said nothing.

  “I didn’t notice the one that . . .”

  “Take your time, Merry.”

  “That killed him. But I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that knife before. One like it, I mean. In the dining room of the Yuletide Inn. My . . . someone at our table had a steak. He . . . I mean they . . . were given a knife just like this one.”

  “I know your father ate steak for dinner, Merry. So did a lot of other people, not only last night, but many other nights. Not to mention we found a kitchen drawer full of knives exactly like this one.”

  “I happened to notice,” I lied, “that my dad’s knife was on his empty plate when the table was cleared.”

  Was a liar supposed to look one directly in the eye or glance away? I couldn’t remember. I had no doubt, however, that Simmonds knew. She gave me a long look.

  “How well do you know Mark Grosse?”

  I blinked at the sudden change of topic. “Not well at all. He’s new in town. He’s the chef at the hotel. I’ve only met him twice. He’s nice.”

  “Your friend Vicky Casey seems to agree.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing. I understand you were witness to an altercation between Gord Olsen and Mark Grosse and Vicky Casey over sourcing bread and pastries for the hotel.”

  “Come on, Detective. Everyone in town must have told you Gord was talking about making changes to the hotel. Big changes. Not many people were happy about it, Kyle Lambert not withstanding.”

  “True. But some people stood to lose a lot more than others. Vicky Casey’s business depended on that order.”

  “No, it doesn’t. She can manage fine without it. It’s a nice-to-have extra, that’s all.”

  “Mark Grosse gave up a good job in New York City to work at the Yuletide. And then there’s Grace Olsen herself. Furious at what her stepson was planning to do to her hotel.”

  “You can’t go around accusing people like that,” I said.

  “Can’t I?” she replied.

  “Did you get any fingerprints off the knife?”

  “
No,” she said. “It had been wiped clean. At this time of year a person wearing gloves goes unnoticed.”

  “What about the sprig of holly?”

  Simmonds glanced around the room. “I notice you don’t sell fresh flowers or greenery.”

  “Not my line. There’s a florist who takes care of that.”

  She nodded. “There’s no shortage of poinsettias, Christmas cactus, or holly in this town. Even the dispatch desk at the police station has a vase of red and white carnations and holly branches on it.”

  “That’s Rudolph,” I said.

  “A length of holly appears to have been taken from one of the arrangements in the Yuletide Inn. It was snapped off and its broken end matches the piece found on Olsen’s body.”

  “That proves the killer was in the hotel recently. Not much of a clue. Lots of people go to that hotel.”

  “As you say, a good many people pass through their doors. There’s no security at the entrance, people are free to come and go as they like. As well as staff and guests, there are tourists having a look, families needing a restroom after skating on the pond, diners, tradesmen. But it does help narrow things down. I’d like to get the pair of earrings we were looking at earlier for my sister for Christmas. Can you put them aside for me? I’ll come back tomorrow to pick them up.”

  “Why not now?”

  “I never mix business with pleasure,” she said. “And shopping is always a pleasure, isn’t it, Merry?”

  The moment the door closed behind Detective Simmonds I grabbed my phone and texted Vicky.

  Home and Mattie first. I sure hope you have lots of wine.

  Chapter 7

  Mattie knew his way around Vicky’s house, and the moment we were through the front door and I’d snapped his leash off, he made a beeline for the kitchen, where he inhaled the last of Sandbanks’s dinner. Sandbanks was Vicky’s ancient golden Lab. When I’d asked Vicky why she wasn’t taking one of the unwanted Saint Bernard puppies, she explained that poor Sandbanks’s old heart wouldn’t be able to survive living with a rambunctious, enthusiastic, not to mention gigantic, new friend. Looking at the old dog now, who managed only to lift one eyelid and mumble a protest at the theft of his supper, made me realize Vicky had a point.

  “Oops,” Vicky said. “I forgot to pick up the bowl.”

  “Too late now,” I said as Mattie sniffed in corners, hoping to come across some tidbit dropped and forgotten. I handed Vicky the bottle of white wine I’d grabbed from my own fridge, and she took two glasses out of the cupboard.

  We carried our drinks into the living room. I curled up in the love seat, and Vicky flopped onto the couch.

  We took a sip of wine, sighed with pleasure, and then said in unison, “How’d it go?”

  We laughed. “Maybe we spend too much time together,” Vicky said. “Next we’ll be finishing each other’s . . .”

  “Sentences. We already do that.”

  “I’ll talk first. It went dreadfully. Simmonds almost accused me straight out of killing Gord Olsen because he’d cut my business.”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I told her I went to bed at seven, alone, read for a bit and had the light out by eight. Whereupon, I slept the night through. I don’t think she believed me.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “What sort of single, thirty-year-old woman goes to bed at seven o’clock?”

  “One who gets up at four, seven days a week to work twelve or more hours,” I said.

  “I told her that.” Vicky held her wineglass up to the light and watched the liquid swirl around inside. “I’m worried more about Mark than me.”

  “Why?”

  “Simmonds was asking all sorts of questions about him. Like, did I think he has a temper and what will he do if he’s let go from Yuletide. One of the kitchen staff at the hotel told her about that scene the other morning when Gord threatened to void Mark’s contract. I got the feeling she might have exaggerated the argument more than a little bit, wanting to make herself sound important.” She sighed. “Mark called me first thing this morning. Asked me to play down the argument if I was asked about it. He sounded really worried.”

  “You don’t think . . .”

  “Of course I don’t. But I don’t like that Simmonds thinks he’s a good murder suspect. First attractive eligible man I’ve met in ages.” She tossed back the contents of her glass and reached for the bottle.

  “They’re centering their investigation on the inn.” As she poured, I told Vicky about the holly taken from a meeting room, and the steak knife, probably stolen from the restaurant. I didn’t add that the knife might have been taken directly from the kitchen.

  “Who do you think did it, Merry?” Vicky asked.

  I threw up my hands. “I have no idea. Who didn’t want to kill Gord Olsen? He was a thoroughly unlikable man. He hadn’t changed one whit since he was a horrid kid at school. He seemed to almost delight in rubbing our noses in the changes he wanted to make. If he’d simply gone quietly about it, we might not have even noticed until it was too late. All I know is who didn’t kill him. My dad, you. Me.”

  “Grace?”

  “Grace had motive, all right. But I saw her later, not long after we found Gord’s body. Calm and composed, relaxing before going to bed. I’d say her shock when she heard the news was genuine. She didn’t try to pretend to be mourning the guy, and wouldn’t she think she had to do that if she’d killed him? I can’t say the same for Irene, though. I don’t know her well enough to judge. She was upset, but she seemed to be angry at Grace rather than grieving for her husband. What do you think?”

  “I’m thinking the Muddites need some investigation.”

  “Why? Wouldn’t they be pleased? The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that?”

  “Maybe they want the Mega-Mart for themselves. They don’t have much of a downtown shopping area for it to destroy.” She downed the last of her wine and put her glass firmly on the table. “Rain check on that pizza. Time for you to be going. I’ll go in early, get the baking started, and leave Marjorie to open up. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to Muddle Harbor.”

  “We were run out of that town so recently our tracks are barely dry. I suspect our pictures are still hanging on the wall at the post office.”

  “Seven o’clock. Sharp.”

  I groaned. “Suppose I say I don’t wanna go?”

  “Then I’ll go by myself.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  * * *

  For once Vicky was late. Punctuality is one of her most annoying features, at least to the chronically late me, and I’d decided to indicate my disapproval of this trip by being ready exactly on time.

  But Mattie and I were waylaid by my landlady, Mrs. D’Angelo, the moment we rounded the corner of the house, and this time I couldn’t pretend I was in a hurry to get someplace else.

  Mrs. D’Angelo had recently bought a pouch and belt to carry her iPhone so she could be instantly reachable at any moment. Standing on the porch, with the contraption strapped to her waist over her dressing gown, and her feet shoved into high-heeled mules, I thought she looked like the tough widow who was standard in old Western movies. Instead of a six-gun, she had her weapon of choice close to hand: a smartphone.

  “Merry Wilkinson,” Mrs. D’Angelo demanded, “what is going on in this town? Annabelle Watson told me that her grandson, who works at the garage that services the police cars, says your father was arrested for murder! The very idea doesn’t merit discussion.” She went on to discuss it at much length. I told her that her information wasn’t accurate, and she nodded sagely and said she never did put any store in gossip. For the briefest of moments I considered getting revenge on my worst enemy (my only enemy), Betty Thatcher, by telling Mrs.
D’Angelo I’d seen Betty running away from the dead body wild-eyed and spattered with blood. Mrs. D’Angelo was the fastest draw in Upstate New York. She’d have that phone out and the news spread all over town in no time. But I couldn’t do that even to Betty. Worse, I could imagine what Simmonds would have to say if she heard the false rumor had come from me.

  At that moment Vicky pulled up and tooted the horn, saving me from the evils of temptation. The last time Vicky and I visited Muddle Harbor she’d borrowed her great-aunt Matilda’s ancient Mercury. Today she was driving the bakery’s delivery van.

  “Where are you two off to this early, Merry?” Mrs. D’Angelo asked.

  “Vicky and I are eloping together,” I said. “I’ll send someone around for my things.”

  I jumped into the van and settled Mattie into my lap after he extended effusive, and very wet, greetings to Vicky. “We’re not incognito today?”

  “No point. Not after that incident the other day when you made such a scene.”

  “Me? I only wanted to eat my breakfast.”

  We drove out of Rudolph. The sun was rising, but it was hard to tell. Heavy gray clouds hung over the lake, wrapping everything in gloom. “It’s supposed to hit thirty-three degrees tomorrow,” Vicky said. “And then get even warmer.”

  “All our lovely snow,” I said sadly.

  “Not to mention the ice on the bay. Marjorie told me Kevin told her they’re talking about making a skating rink in the park in case the lake’s too soft. Can’t have the little tourist kiddies falling in.”

  Mattie woofed in agreement.

  Muddle Harbor isn’t far from Rudolph, but it might as well be on another planet. They’re struggling to keep their Main Street vibrant, but too many of the storefronts are boarded up. Those that are still hanging on had holiday decorations in the windows, but to my experienced eye they looked halfhearted, as though no one had sufficient energy to care anymore. There were few cars on the streets, and the occasional pedestrian had their back bent and their head buried into their collar. It might be gray and gloomy in Rudolph this morning, but in Muddle Harbor everything seemed grayer and gloomier. Then again, that might have been nothing more than my imagination working overtime.