by Vicki Delany
Mrs. D’Angelo caught me mid–downward dog. The protests of the real dog, confined to the bedroom so I could lie on the floor without being licked to death, were escalating, and I feared she’d come to tell me to keep him quiet.
No such luck. When I opened the door, she waved the paper in my face. “Have you seen this outrage, Merry?”
“No,” I said, “I haven’t even seen the sun yet. Oh, look, it’s morning.” A weak sun was trying, but failing, to get its head over the horizon and out from under the bank of thick storm clouds to the east.
My sarcasm was lost on Mrs. D’Angelo. She’d thrown a wrap over her shoulders and stuffed her feet into boots without tying the laces. She wore a sleek satin lilac nightgown with a lace-trimmed, plunging décolletage that left less to my imagination than I wanted. I wondered if she always wore sexy lingerie to bed. As far as I knew there was no Mr. D’Angelo, and I’d never seen strange cars parked in her driveway overnight.
“You should consider suing,” she said.
Against my better judgment, I plucked the paper from her fingers and skimmed the article quickly. It was short on facts and long on insinuation, but one fact they did have absolutely right: Dad had been fired as the town’s Santa Claus after “two uniformed officers escorted him from a meeting of the Rudolph town council to question him about the brutal murder of . . .” I glanced at the article’s byline. Dawn Galloway. Never heard of her.
Mrs. D’Angelo reached for the paper. I thanked her and shut the door in her face. She didn’t think I was going to give it back for her to share with everyone else in town, did she?
I never did finish my yoga routine. Instead I let Mattie out of his prison cell, otherwise known as my bedroom, and got ready for the day. I was supposed to be having breakfast with Mom and Grace at the inn. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do less. I sent Jackie a text telling her where I was in case of an emergency (almost hoping there would be one), stuffed Mattie into his real prison cell, his crate, and left.
Punctual as ever, Mom was waiting by the front door when I pulled into the driveway of my parents’ lovely Victorian house. She climbed into my car and leaned over to give me a peck on the cheek.
“How’s Dad?” I asked, pulling into the street.
“Not good. I’ve never seen him so downcast.”
I decided not to mention the contents of this morning’s Chronicle. They might not ever see it—surely no one would be brave enough to show it to my parents. “He’s going to protest, isn’t he? He’s more popular on the council than Sue-Anne is. She acted way out of line by searching for a new Santa without council approval.”
Mom sighed. “He’s too proud. He says if they want him to resume his duties as Rudolph’s official Santa Claus they will have to come, and I quote, ‘crawling on their hands and knees.’”
“What a mess.”
The sun had managed to put in an appearance after all, and by the time we drove down the long road to the Yuletide Inn it was shining on last night’s freshly fallen snow. We passed a young couple with skates thrown over their shoulders and families pulling well-wrapped kids on wooden toboggans heading for the bump in the garden the inn grandiosely called a hill. Snowmen of varying quality were dotted across the lawns.
The police tape, I was glad to see, had been taken down.
“The forecast for the weekend is still looking bad,” Mom said. “Not that it matters anymore. Let it rain all it wants. Wash this whole miserable town away.”
“Mom!” I said, shocked to my Christmas-loving core. “You don’t mean that.”
“No, I don’t suppose I do. But this year I am not feeling the goodwill, Merry.”
Grace waited for us in the hotel lobby. Logs crackled in the fireplace, the tree glowed, the decorations shone, and happy families headed out for a day of winter fun. I scarcely noticed. I was also not in the Christmas spirit. And, judging by her face, neither was Grace. Shadows the color of clouds heralding a winter storm were under her eyes, and new lines radiated out from the corners of her mouth. She was usually perfectly groomed. Today, I wondered when she’d last washed her hair and if she had ever before worn that tatty sweater outside of her house.
She got to her feet when she saw us and put on a smile that seemed genuine. “You brought Merry, how nice.” She greeted us with hugs and a light kiss.
“How’s Jack?” I asked.
“He’s doing well.” Her smile faded. “Physically, at any rate, but he’s showing not the slightest amount of interest in anything. I’ve been trying to bring some decisions regarding the hotel to him, to get him involved, but he simply shrugs and tells me to handle it. He was listless before, but since hearing about Gord it’s as though he’s lost the will to live.” She choked back a sob.
Mom put her arm around her friend’s shoulders. I remembered what Russ had told me last night. Impossible. How could anyone even consider that this fragile woman had stabbed her own stepson?
Grace pulled herself away and wiped at her eyes. “We’ll have our breakfast in the restaurant. Jack’s not wanting company. One of the chambermaids is with him now. I’ve hired a private nurse to spend the afternoons with him so I can get some work done at the hotel.”
“The restaurant’s fine,” I said.
Grace led the way through, and the hostess showed us to a table in a quiet corner overlooking the snow-covered gardens.
“Nice to see people out enjoying the day,” Mom said.
“Yes,” Grace said, with little enthusiasm. “Just coffee for me, please,” she told the waitress, “but you two help yourselves.”
An assortment of fresh fruit, cheeses, and breakfast pastries was laid out on the long table. I, at least, was hungry. It had been a long time since the microwave pizza I never did eat. “Can I get you something, Mom?”
“Orange juice and a bran muffin would be nice, dear. Thank you.”
I went to the buffet and studied the offerings. The long baguettes looked very much like they’d come from Vicky’s bakery, and the sliced bread beside the toaster was dotted with seeds or thick with raisins. Mark had lost no time getting back to his regular suppliers. Mark. Was it possible?
No. I pushed Russ’s cryptic comments aside and loaded up plates for Mom and me.
I was tucking into a slice of baguette topped with butter and soft, runny cheese when a shadow fell over our table. Mom and Grace stopped chatting.
Irene’s hands were on her hips, and you could almost see the hostility radiating from her. She was glaring, not at Grace as I might have expected, but at my mom. “You. You dare to show your face here.”
Mom threw me a glance, the expression on her face one of total bewilderment. “I’m afraid I don’t . . .”
“The police arrested your husband for the murder of my husband, but they let him go. They can’t have Santa Claus in the pokey.”
All around us conversation ground to a halt. Diners froze with coffee cups halfway to their lips and toast was put down unbitten.
“I assure you . . .” Mom began.
I wasn’t in the mood to be polite. I jumped to my feet. “That’s a baseless accusation. My dad was here the night your husband died, so he was questioned in the course of a normal police investigation, as were you, I believe. He has no influence over the police.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Irene sneered. “Noel Wilkinson owns this town—everyone says so.”
“That’s preposterous.”
The hostess hurried up to our table. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Olsen?”
“No,” Irene said. “Everything is not all right. You”—she pointed a red-tipped finger at Mom—“need to ask yourself why your husband would want to get rid of Gord. Because it seems to me”—she swung the finger at Grace—“only one person benefited from my Gordy’s death. Her.”
A deep quiet had settled over the dining room.
The staff stopped clearing dishes or bringing in fresh trays. Breakfast eaters were listening either in rapt interest or shocked silence.
Mom’s face matched the color of her red blouse and glass earrings. She pushed back her chair and rose slowly to her feet. She took a deep breath and her chest expanded. She was a highly trained, professional opera singer, and I feared for Irene’s eardrums. Not that she didn’t deserve to have them shattered, but the rest of us were also in range.
“You better leave, Irene,” I said.
“Not until I’ve had my say. I know what’s going on here. They left the dinner together that night, didn’t they? Your father and her. Her husband was in the hospital fighting for his life, and she couldn’t wait to get another man into his bed. What did you tell Noel, Grace? That you’d be ever so grateful if he killed Gord for you?”
Mom slapped Irene across the face. The sound was like a gunshot. The onlookers let out a collective gasp.
Grace leapt to her feet. “Let’s go, Aline. We don’t have to listen to her nasty insinuations.”
Irene’s face was a picture of shock as a red blotch slowly spread across her cheek. “How dare you.”
“I can’t say it wasn’t deserved.” Mark joined our little group. “Get out of here, Irene.” He kept his voice low.
“You can’t order me around.”
“I certainly can. This is private property, and I am evicting you from my restaurant. Leave or I’ll call the police.”
“You do that and I’ll tell them she hit me.”
“You want to wash your dirty laundry in front of the police, go ahead. Everyone here’s heard enough of it.”
Irene bristled. Mark stared at her, unblinking.
“I was wrong,” Irene said, “in one thing only. She isn’t the only person who wanted Gordy dead. Suited you to have a free hand with the spending, didn’t it, Mr. New York Chef?”
Mark grabbed her arm, but she shook him off. “I’m leaving. For now. But I’m not going far. I will see that you people are put in jail where you belong.” She marched out of the restaurant, her head high. Everyone watched her go. And then, as if at a hidden signal, the patrons started eating and chatting (although perhaps somewhat loudly) and the staff began banging dishes and cutlery.
Mom dropped into her chair. Her eyes were round and her face white. “I can’t believe I did that,” she said.
Mark beckoned to the hostess. “Can you please go to the lobby and ensure that Mrs. Irene Olsen has left?” He turned to us with a grimace. “Don’t want her lying in wait to start another confrontation.”
“Thank you, Mark,” Grace said. “You handled that well.”
“I put in my time in some less-than-respectable eateries. Even the top-ranked places can get rowdy if enough wine flows.” He turned to me with a smile. “Say hi to Vicky for me. Tell her the breads are as good as ever.”
“I will.”
He went back to the kitchen, and the hostess reported that Irene had left. None of us felt like finishing our breakfast, but Grace suggested we wait for a few minutes before making our exit, to let the guests’ attention return to their own business.
“I don’t suppose,” I said, “you have any idea of what Irene and Gord’s marriage was like?”
Grace raised one eyebrow. “Not in the slightest. Why do you ask?”
“Don’t they say the spouse is the first person the cops suspect? What better way to deflect suspicion from oneself than to turn it on someone else. Dad, you, even Mark. Irene’s casting a wide net.”
Grace thought for a moment. “I can’t say they seemed at all close. No secret glances or little touches here and there.”
“Many couples don’t act like that after years of marriage,” Mom said, “but they don’t turn around and kill each other.”
“True,” I said. “But it’s a possibility. If you’re planning to murder your spouse, or even just thinking of it, wouldn’t it be better to do it someplace far from home? Where the police can’t easily question your friends and neighbors? Even better to be in a place where everyone and their dog is mad at the spouse.”
“You might be right,” Mom said. “But what can we do about it?”
“I’ll talk to Detective Simmonds. I’m sure she’s thought of Irene herself, but if not, it’s time she did.”
Grace pushed her chair back. “I need to go home and check on Jack. I think it’s safe to leave now.”
Chapter 10
When I dropped Mom at home, she turned to me with a sparkle in her eyes and a big grin on her face.
“What are you looking so pleased about?” I asked.
“I can’t wait until I tell your father what I did.” Her sleek, fur-trimmed leather gloves made a punching gesture. “Pow! You know I am opposed to violence at all times, but that sure felt good.” Another air punch. “All those years I bit my tongue against tyrannical directors and spoiled-rotten divas. I should have just belted them in the chops. Pow!”
Now, that was a truly terrifying thought. “Don’t get too carried away, Mom. Irene could have you charged with assault, you know. There were plenty of witnesses. Wilkinsons are spending enough time down at the police station these days.”
She sighed. “You’re right, dear. I’ll have to relive my moment of glory only in my head. Pow!”
She almost danced up the path, ducking and diving, her fists punching the air. If someone ever decided to mount an operatic version of Rocky, Mom was a shoo-in for the main role.
When I arrived at the shop, I was pleased to see that the place was humming with activity. Jackie was ringing up purchases and chatting happily with the customer in front of her. I was even more pleased as Jackie continued punching in numbers on the cash register. This woman had bought a full set of table linens: two runners, one oatmeal and one red; twelve place mats that said “Ho, ho, ho”; and a matching number of red napkins embroidered with white snowflakes. The linens were accompanied by red and white serving dishes and a giant white turkey platter.
“Why don’t you help these ladies take their purchases to their car?” I said to Jackie. “I’ll take over here.”
Jackie did a poor job of hiding a grimace. She didn’t like doing heavy lifting. Neither did I, which was why I hadn’t volunteered to do it. And I’m the boss.
I recognized the big spender as the shorter of the Fine Budget Inn wives. Her thin friend was behind her in line with one of Alan’s necklaces, circles of highly polished wood linked by a long leather chain, draped through her fingers.
“Nice to see you,” I said with a smile. “I hope you’re enjoying Rudolph.”
“We love it! It’s adorable,” the thin one exclaimed. “I’m so disappointed that my husband’s deal fell through. I want to come to Rudolph every year.”
“Kathy!” her friend said. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about the business.”
“Oh pooh, Arlene. It’s no secret anymore.” She turned to me. “Our husbands were interested in helping the owner of the Yuletide Inn convert it to a Fine Budget. But, well, he up and died and it looks like the deal’s off.”
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t going to say I was sorry. Even if her friend was dropping five hundred bucks in my store. “Why are you still here, then?” A mite blunt, but Kathy didn’t seem like one who noticed that sort of thing.
“Fred says he’s not ready to give up yet. He says the owner’s wife is still . . .”
“Kathy! I swear your mouth is going to get you in real trouble one day. Now, pay for that necklace while I show this young lady where our car is.” Arlene picked up the smallest and lightest of the shopping bags and sailed outside while Jackie followed, staggering under the weight of the goods.
Leaving me with the chatty Kathy and her necklace. “Would you like a gift box for that?” I asked.
“No thanks. It’s for me.” She pulled out her credi
t card, and I completed the transaction. I wrapped the necklace carefully in tissue and folded it into a small bag with the store’s logo. “The owner’s wife’s still interested in the deal?” I said casually. “Do you mean the wife of the owner or of the man who died? He wasn’t the owner but his only child.”
Kathy shrugged. “I don’t know. Fred gave me his wink that means he has something up his sleeve and said he wasn’t ready to head for home quite yet.” She beamed at me. “Which means more shopping time for me. I can’t wait until I wear this necklace at our bridge club holiday luncheon. Of course, we’re not supposed to try to one-up each other, but after Norma brought out that . . .”
Jackie and Arlene came back into the store. Rats, she must have been parked right outside. Kathy picked up her bag and said, “Thanks.” The women left.
“What was all that about?” Jackie said. “The inn’s still for sale?”
“A franchise opportunity, not a sale. Irene, Gord’s widow, is just making trouble.” I said it, but I wasn’t so sure. Irene had no power to do anything. Executives from a big corporation like Fine Budget Inns weren’t fools. They wouldn’t waste their time talking to someone who had nothing to offer.
Could Kathy possibly have meant Grace was talking business with the men? Surely not. Grace loved the inn exactly the way it was.
“I have great news,” Jackie said.
“I could use some about now. But first, can you run to Cranberries and get me a latte? You can buy one for yourself, too.” I dug in the cash register and came up with the money. I was in dire need of a caffeine fix; I’d barely had one sip of my coffee at breakfast before the whole Irene incident exploded.
