by Vicki Delany
We drove past the Muddle Harbor Café, the lone bright spot on that depressing street. Several cars were pulled up to the curb outside, and yellow light shone inside, giving the place a warm and inviting glow. The big front window was outlined with red and green lights and fake snow frosted the glass.
Vicky slid into a parking spot.
“I hope I can enjoy my breakfast this time,” I said.
“That’s why I brought you. As we can’t be undercover anymore, we need an excuse to visit. Your desire for artery-clogging grease, factory-produced eggs, and industrial bread has to be satisfied.”
“There are places like that in Rudolph, you know,” I said. “The Elves’ Lunch Box isn’t exactly up for an award from the American Heart Association.”
“Do they give awards to restaurants?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I am simply making a point.”
“And an excellent point, I am sure. Mattie will have to stay in the van.”
I struggled to get the dog off my lap and wiggle myself out of my seat without letting him leap into the street. “I’ll bring you a treat,” I said, giving him a pat as I slammed the door. “A piece of bacon, perhaps.”
“I won’t let you poison that animal,” Vicky said.
“He’s a dog. He thinks cat poo is a delicacy.”
We went into the café. The strong scent of frying bacon and sausages, warm toast slathered in runny butter, and fresh coffee filled the room. The place was busy this morning. A few old-timers lingered over their breakfasts, solving the problems of the world; high school–aged kids slouched in chairs, putting off the time when they had to leave, and young mothers chatted while babies squirmed on their laps.
The big round table in the center of the room was full. Six men, two of them in business suits, three in business casual, and one in overalls and steel-toed boots. Papers and iPads were spread on the table among the full coffee cups, empty plates, and used cutlery.
The waitress began gathering up their dirty dishes. “Be with you in a sec,” she called to us over her shoulder. Then she turned and saw us. “Oh. It’s you two,” she said. The men glanced up at the tone of her voice.
Randy Baumgartner, mayor of Muddle Harbor, scowled at the sight of us. I gave him a cheerful wave. He did not return the greeting.
“We’re back,” Vicky said. She headed straight for the long counter and dropped into a red vinyl stool. I could do nothing but follow. The café was decorated like a ’50s-style diner. I figured it wasn’t so much retro chic as the fact that the decor had never changed as the decades passed. But it was clean and the coffee was strong and hot. The laminated menu was tucked between the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispenser. I pulled it out and opened it to the page of breakfast specials.
“I’m surprised you two would show your faces here again.” The waitress wiped her hands on her apron before placing them on her ample hips and glaring at us. Her eyes were like shards of ice.
“My friend insisted we come,” Vicky said.
“I did? I mean, I did. I . . . had to come here for breakfast again. Janice, isn’t it?”
The ice in her eyes melted fractionally. “Yes.”
“It was sooooo good. I couldn’t resist. I own a shop in Rudolph. The other day some of my customers asked where the best breakfast place was, and I sent them here. Did they come? Middle-aged couple?” I had done no such thing. There were plenty of restaurants and cafés in Rudolph to suit all tastes and price ranges. Whenever a customer asked me for a good place to eat, I sent them to Victoria’s Bake Shoppe or the Elves’ Lunch Box for lunch or breakfast, to the Hearthside if they wanted a casual dinner, or to A Touch of Holly across the street from me for something fancier. If they looked to be well-heeled or just wanting a special night out, I suggested the Yuletide.
Janice wasn’t about to say my customers hadn’t shown up. “Yes, I think they did.”
“That’s great. I believe in helping everyone out. A rising tide lifts all boats, right?”
“Right. Let me grab the coffeepot while you decide.” She bustled away.
“You don’t have to go that far overboard,” Vicky said under her breath.
I gave her a smile. “Your idea.”
Janice came back with the pot. As she poured, I said, “I don’t even have to look at the menu. I can’t remember when I had better hash browns.”
“That’s because you never eat them,” Vicky mumbled into her coffee.
“I’ll have the poached eggs, soft, with bacon, hash browns, and wheat toast.”
Janice laboriously wrote all that down. She turned to Vicky, pencil poised. “You?”
Vicky suppressed a shudder. “The same. But hold the toast. Oh, and I’ll have sausage instead of bacon. And fried eggs, not poached. Sunny-side up. I like my hash browns really well done.”
“Otherwise,” I said, “exactly the same.” I swung around on my stool. In addition to the mayor, I recognized some of the other men at the big table. Janice’s brother, John, a real estate agent, was watching us. I gave him a nod. He nodded back. The group included a tall African American and a younger white guy. I’d seen those two at the Yuletide Inn. Checking out the garden property with Gord. They were from Mega-Mart.
I swung my stool back around. I jerked my head at the table behind us and gave Vicky a slight nod. We’d gotten the information we came for.
“Will you look at the time,” Vicky said. “Gotta run.”
“I haven’t eaten yet.”
“No time.” She slid off her stool.
“Sit down,” I hissed. “I want my breakfast. You brought me all this way. This time you can pick up the check.”
She harrumphed, but dropped back onto the stool. Janice placed two heaping platters in front of us. I sprayed ketchup all over my potatoes and dug in. I pretended not to notice as Vicky vacuumed up her food with as much enthusiasm as Mattie at Sandbanks’s bowl.
“Would you like a piece of my toast?” I said sweetly.
“No,” she grunted around a mouthful of sausage and eggs.
Janice topped up the coffee cups. “I hear you’ve had more trouble over in Rudolph,” she said, barely able to control the glee in her voice.
“Comes with being so popular and prosperous, I guess,” Vicky said.
Janice glanced at her brother and his companions. “Rudolph’s misfortune might be Muddle Harbor’s gain.”
“What do you know,” Vicky said. “I was thinking the exact same thing.” She put cash on the counter to pay for the breakfasts. Janice reminded me to keep recommending the café to my customers.
“I hope you’ll say something nice about me at my funeral,” Vicky said once we were back on the sidewalk.
I carried a take-out bag with a rasher of bacon and a hunk of sausage I’d had to guilt Vicky into leaving for Mattie. “What do you mean?”
“I can feel my arteries clogging even as we speak. The things I do for you.”
“You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”
She sniffed and went to the van without saying a word.
Mattie appreciated his second breakfast.
Chapter 8
On the drive back to Rudolph, Vicky and I discussed what to do next. As I was in the clear for the murder of Gord Olsen (unless, Vicky pointed out, Simmonds decided my mom, Russ, Alan, and I were in on it together) I’d contact Simmonds to tell her what we learned.
Vicky dropped Mattie and me at home. I dashed around the side of the house and pretended not to hear the front door open and Mrs. D’Angelo shout, “Merry, shouldn’t you be at the shop?”
Not for the first time, I thought it might be a good idea to cut a hole in the back fence so I could get in and out without being interrogated about my activities.
The second floor of Mrs. D’Angelo’s stately Victorian mansion was divided into two apartments,
and I ran into my neighbors, Steve and Wendy, coming down the stairs. Mattie greeted them with his usual excess of enthusiasm while Tina, their adorable baby, held her pudgy little arms out to me.
“How are the plans going for Saturday?” I asked.
Wendy’s face creased into a frown. She worked at the town offices and had a big hand in planning the children’s party weekend. “I won’t pretend we’re not worried, Merry. Temperatures are supposed to rise all week. If that happens, by Saturday the ice on the lake will be soft and the snow in the park nothing but slush and mud.”
“Kids won’t care,” I said. “Not as long as Santa’s there.”
“Parents might care,” Steve said, “if we get the freezing rain they’re calling for.”
“We can only hope it doesn’t come to that,” Wendy said.
“The weather forecast has been known to be wrong on occasion,” I, ever the optimist, pointed out.
“Have a good day,” Wendy said.
“You, too. Bye!” I waved to Tina, and she buried her head in her father’s shoulder with a giggle.
* * *
My dad arrived at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures shortly after opening. “Weather’s not looking good,” he said.
“We’ll manage—we always do.”
He gave me a smile. “That’s true.” He wandered through the shop, moving this, rearranging that.
“Did you hear anything more from the police?” I said.
“No.”
“That’s good, then.”
“Jack was released from the hospital yesterday. Your mom and I went with Grace to get him and bring him home. He looked, I have to say, like death warmed over. Which, come to think of it, he is.”
“How’d he take the death of Gord?”
“Hard. As could be expected. He wanted to be driven directly to the morgue, but Grace put her foot down and said he had to rest first.”
“How’d he take that?”
“He didn’t argue, if that’s what you’re asking. His brush with mortality has taken a lot out of him. He’s listless, uninterested in everything. Perhaps he’s the sort of man who can only fight one battle at a time.”
The chimes above the door tinkled and I turned, plastering on my welcoming smile. I let the smile die when I saw who it was. Betty Thatcher.
“Noel. I thought that was your car outside. How’s Jack? Do you have any word?”
“He’s doing well, Betty,” Dad said. “He was released from the hospital last night.”
“Oh, that is good news.” She smiled. I hadn’t known she could do that. “He’ll be up and about and back to running that hotel in no time.”
“I’m sure of it,” Dad said.
Betty continued smiling at him. Then she turned to me, and her smile died as quickly as mine had. “I’d better get back to my own business. I’ve been so busy all day, I can only take a second to stand and chat. Unlike some people.”
“Clark not helping out today?” I said.
“He didn’t want to take a day off, but I insisted. He’s been working so hard, and we’ll be so busy with the children’s weekend coming up.” She glanced around my shop. “I got some special toys in, Merry. Too bad you didn’t think of doing that.”
I ground my teeth as the chimes sounded her out. Dad laughed.
“Miserable bat,” I said. “I’m surprised she cares about Jack.”
“Don’t be too hard on Betty, honeybunch. She hasn’t always had an easy time of it. Natural enough that she’s worried about Jack. We Rudolphers stick together, you know. Particularly us old-timers. You need more tree decorations on this table.”
“No, I don’t. The table looks fine. If you remember, we’re pushing children’s things this week.” I’d arranged the big table in the center of the room, the one that caught people’s attention the minute they came into the shop, with toys as well as whimsical decorations of the sort that would be featured on the children’s table at Christmas dinner or in guest rooms for visiting families.
Dad gathered up the group of nine reindeer pulling a sleigh piled high with miniature gift-wrapped boxes and put them on a side counter. “Where are the boxes of tree ornaments?”
There was never any point in arguing with my dad. Santa knows best. Or he thinks he does. I pointed. “In the room on the right.”
“They need to be front and center.” He went to one of the alcoves and emerged weighted down with boxes of glass balls, strings of tiny lights, and brightly painted bells. He piled the boxes on the center table.
“Dad! That looks perfectly awful. I can’t have a bunch of boxes as the main display.”
“The pictures on the boxes show what’s inside.”
“That’s not good enough. People want to pick things up, hold them. That helps them choose.”
“They can hold the decorations to their heart’s content once they’ve got them home,” he said. “Now, I have to be going. We’re meeting to discuss plans if it rains on Saturday, as is predicted.”
“That’ll cut down the number of attendees,” I said.
“Nothing like icy rain dripping down the back of your neck to put you off outdoor fun. What are you getting in that’s special for Saturday?”
“Extra toys. I have some sets of reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh to decorate the children’s dinner table. I hope my customers can find them wherever you put them.”
“I mean, what are you planning to serve the shoppers?”
“Nothing. I don’t hand out food and drink.”
“I’d suggest hot cider,” Dad said. “Maybe some cookies. Treats that smell of ginger and cinnamon. If the weather is bad you’ll need something to lure customers in. I’ll call Vicky now and put in an order for gingerbread cookies.”
Dad left, talking into his phone. I shook my head. I contemplated putting the boxes of decorations back in the alcove. But if I did that, Dad would be offended next time he came in.
Sometimes I’m too nice for my own good.
A few customers wandered in and out of the shop. I sold one woman a wreath brooch to wear to a holiday party, and another picked up some table linens as hostess gifts, but that was pretty much it for the morning. Retail, particularly around Christmas and for Christmas goods, is highly dependent on the weather. I glanced out the window. Thick gray clouds hung overhead and the piles of once-lovely fluffy white snow were turning dark and gritty.
Nothing I could do about that.
At noon, I flipped the sign on the door to “Closed.” I’d been wanting to talk to Detective Simmonds all morning, but I couldn’t chance a customer coming into the shop when I was in the middle of a call with the police.
I told Siri, the personal assistant who lives in my phone and exists only to do what I command, to call Diane Simmonds. It still seems somewhat Star Trekkie to be giving orders into a little box, but it worked and the detective answered immediately.
“It’s . . . uh . . . me. Merry Wilkinson,” I said.
“Yes?”
Not one for small talk, our Detective Simmonds. “I learned something this morning that might be important in your investigation. I want to talk to you about it. I’m closed for lunch now, so I could come around to the station if you’re in?”
“No need,” she said. “I am, as it happens, just down the street. I was going to pick up something to eat but I can come to your shop first. I’ll be right there.”
She wasn’t kidding about being just down the street. She was rapping at the door in the time it took me to hop off the stool.
“What’s up?” she said the minute she was inside.
“Have you ever been to Muddle Harbor?”
“The next town over? No. Should I?”
“Not if you’re looking for a pleasant evening out, no. But you should pay a call on them. The Muddle Harbor folks don’t like Rudolph. They l
ost no time in sitting down with the Mega-Mart people once Gord was dead and the inn property was no longer up for sale.”
“How do you know this?”
“Vicky Casey and I went to Muddle Harbor this morning.”
“Why?”
“To have breakfast. We like to get out of Rudolph sometimes. Away from places where we’re constantly interrupted by people in search of the latest gossip.”
Simmonds cocked her head to one side. I’d intended simply to tell her what we’d observed, but here I was already being questioned about my motives and lying in response. I heroically struggled on. “Anyway, we just happened to be at the Muddle Harbor Café for breakfast, and there they were, sitting around a table covered in blueprints and maps and papers. The Mega-Mart guys with the mayor and a real estate agent. The Muddites were looking mighty pleased with themselves, I might add.”
“And . . .”
“And? Don’t you think that’s suspicious? I do. It’s totally a motive for the murder of Gord Olsen. Grace and Jack will never sell the garden property, so the deal for a Mega-Mart is dead. The people of Muddle Harbor let no time pass before jumping in and attempting to lure Mega-Mart to their town. You need to ask yourself cui bono. Who benefits from the death of Gord Olsen? The town of Muddle Harbor, obviously.”
“Believe it or not, Merry, I have been asking cui bono. I was taught to do that in detective school on day one.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“Why are you so quick to assume Jack won’t sell the property? Is it only because you and your friends don’t want him to? The man has been seriously ill. Perhaps he’ll decide it’s time to retire. As for the people from Mega-Mart, businessmen of my acquaintance check out a lot of options before deciding to locate their property in this town or that one.”
“I know that but . . .”
“Merry, I appreciate that you’re trying to help. Although I have to wonder if you’re intent on helping the police or your friends. Please stop. Now, if you don’t have any other information for me, I’ll go and get my lunch.”
