We Wish You a Murderous Christmas

by Vicki Delany

  Chapter 11

  That had not gone as I had intended. Sure, I learned a few things, but I seemed to have refocused Simmonds’s steely-eyed gaze even more intently on my father.

  Simmonds escorted me to the inner door. Nancy smirked. When I was in the vestibule, pulling on my gloves and zipping up my coat, Simmonds returned to her office. I opened the door, and a woman pushed past me into the police station, without sparing me a glance. She was about my age, with brown hair cropped short, dressed in a long, puffy black coat and a tattered blue scarf.

  “I’m here to see Detective Simmonds,” she announced to the Plexiglas partition.

  “Name?” Nancy asked.

  “Dawn Galloway. Muddle Harbor Chronicle.”

  That caught my attention, all right. I let the outer door close slowly and fished in my bag, searching for something. Anything.

  “The detective is not speaking to the press,” Nancy said.

  “I want to introduce myself,” Dawn Galloway said. “Give her my card.”

  Nancy struggled mightily to get to her feet. She approached the partition as if it were at the end of a very long, rough road. “Leave your card with me. I’ll see she gets it.”

  “I won’t take but a moment of her time,” Dawn said.

  Nancy thrust her hand into the little slot at the bottom of the partition. Dawn slapped a card into it. “If she’s busy, I can wait.”

  Nancy’s eyes flicked to me. “Are you wanting anything further, Merry?” Now she remembered my name.

  “Nope,” I said.

  Dawn whirled around. “Merry. You must be Merry Wilkinson. Pleased to meet you.” She thrust out her hand. “Dawn Galloway, Muddle Harbor Chronicle.” Instinctively, I put out my own hand. I tried not to wince in pain. Her grip was strong enough to break bones. I suspected she’d been taught to be forceful in journalism school.

  “I read your article this morning,” I said. “You have a nerve coming here after printing that.”

  “Just trying to get the facts, Merry. The people need to know—isn’t that right? What brings you here? Has your father been arrested again?”

  “He wasn’t arrested the first time.”

  She pushed the door open and almost shoved me outside. “Why don’t we go for a coffee? My treat. You can tell me your side of the story.”

  “I don’t have a side,” I said, “but I can tell you the truth standing right here.” The precipitation in the air hadn’t been able to decide if it wanted to be rain or snow. So it compromised and was now both. My face stung under the barrage of icy pellets. “My dad didn’t kill Gord Olsen.”

  “Brr, but it’s cold. A nice hot coffee will take the chill off. Can you recommend a good place, Merry?”

  “No,” I said and walked away.

  “Perhaps I’ll go to Victoria’s Bake Shoppe,” she called after me. “People say Vicky Casey’s business was in danger of being ruined by Gord Olsen. I’ve heard you and she are friends. Is she the sort to fly off the handle and act violently?”

  I stopped walking.

  “Just asking,” Dawn said.

  “Are you allowed to print out-and-out lies?” I asked.

  “I report on what I hear. Is it true Gord Olsen stopped sourcing his baked goods from Vicky Casey?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “See? Just the truth. It’s not difficult. Tell me about Mark Grosse.”

  “I don’t know anything about Mark Grosse.” Why was I talking to this horrid woman? I should be marching resolutely down Jingle Bell Lane with a firm “No comment” trailing behind me in the icy air.

  “Being a top chef’s a cutthroat business these days,” Dawn said. “Oops, bad choice of words there. Anyway, I heard there was some trouble back in the city. The golden boy had to pack up his pans and tall hat and escape to the boonies, where no one knew him.”

  “I know nothing about that. And I care even less,” I lied.

  “While I’m waiting to see Detective Simmonds, I’m going to pop into town hall. Is that it over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice and close. They can keep an eye on all the comings and goings in the police station. I’m going to get a comment from Acting Mayor Morrow on Mayor Baumgartner’s statement this morning about Santa Claus.” She paused, waiting for me to ask.

  I bit my tongue. Hard. I didn’t know what the mayor of Muddle Harbor had had to say about Santa Claus, but I was determined not to give Dawn Galloway the satisfaction of my begging for scraps of information. This time I did walk away.

  “Maybe it was your father after all, then,” Dawn called after me. “Santa Claus himself. Imagine what a scandal that would be.”

  I put my head down against the freezing rain and hurried away from the police station. I almost collided with Betty Thatcher, coming in the other direction. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?” she snapped.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. I made to dodge around Betty and stepped on a patch of slushy ice. My left foot slid out from under me and my arms windmilled. I would have fallen flat on my face had Betty not grabbed me. She acted purely on instinct, and her expression said she wished she’d left me to my fate. I muttered my thanks and ran off, watching where I put my feet.

  I didn’t go back to the shop, but headed in the opposite direction for the offices of the Rudolph Gazette. Everyone was implying things about Mark, but no one was coming out and saying what had happened. If he had done something awful, I needed to warn Vicky before she got too deeply involved with him.

  Russ was in his office, reading his computer screen and frowning mightily. He looked up when I came in and gave me a smile. Like small-town papers everywhere, the Gazette was a shadow of its former self. The paper used to fill an entire building in the center of what was then Main Street. Now Russ didn’t even have an office, just a battered and battle-scarred wooden desk in one corner of a crowded, stuffy, overheated room. He was called the editor in chief, but that was nothing but a grandiose title. Other than the receptionist, who doubled as a copy editor, two women who sold advertising, a part-time entertainment section editor, and one junior reporter, more interested in finding a job on a big paper than investigating the goings-on in Rudolph, Russ was it.

  “Please don’t tell me something bad has happened,” I said. “I don’t think I can take any more.”

  “Randy Baumgartner, mayor of Muddle Harbor, released a statement this morning.”

  “I heard something about that. How bad is it?”

  “He says that in light of the events in Rudolph that required the town’s Santa Claus to be removed from his post, Muddle Harbor will provide a safe holiday environment where families can bring their children. Santa will be greeting guests at the Muddle Harbor rec center Saturday and Sunday.”

  I groaned. “You know what people are going to think being ‘removed from his post’ means.”

  “I do. No one ever said the Muddites play fair, and Sue-Anne is playing right into their hands.”

  “There’s a Chronicle reporter in town. I ran into her at the police station. Simmonds wouldn’t see her, so she’s gone to try to get a statement out of Sue-Anne.”

  Russ pushed himself out of his chair and reached for his jacket. “Is that so? I’d better get in on that.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Mark Grosse. I have to know what you learned about him.”

  “Walk with me, Merry.” He headed for the door at a fast clip. I ran after him.

  Russ’s fast clip ended abruptly when he hit the fresh ice forming on the sidewalk. “Mark Grosse,” he said as we penguin-walked toward the town hall. “I still have plenty of contacts in the city, including the restaurant reviewer for the Times. Mark Grosse was making a name for himself in the farm-to-fork movement. Local foods, sustainably raised, with prices to match. He was hired as executive chef at a hot new Manhattan restaurant, the Cr
ooked Fork.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Everyone was talking about it when I was living in the city. It was huge. That was Mark?”

  “Yup. The owner was aiming to make it one of the top restaurants in New York. The first reviews were stellar, the place was an immediate hit. Politicians and Broadway stars ate there. The common folk had to make reservations months ahead of time. Common, meaning those who could afford seventy-five-dollar steaks and twenty-dollar purple Russian fingerling potatoes served with butter from a cow the waiter could tell you the name and ancestry of. And then . . .”

  We arrived at the town hall. Russ stopped talking.

  “And then . . .” I prompted.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

  A babel of excited voices was coming from inside the building. Russ ran up the steps. I followed, still mindful of my footing.

  In the reception area a crowd had gathered around Sue-Anne Morrow and Dawn Galloway. Sue-Anne’s face was an unattractive shade of puce and her breathing heavy. Dawn was writing in a notebook. Everyone else was shouting. My neighbor Wendy was the only person to notice Russ and me come in. She gave me a grim-faced nod.

  “You can’t do that,” Sue-Anne shouted.

  Various people hollered words such as “outrage” and “disgrace.” Someone threatened to sue.

  Russ pushed his way through. “What’s going on here?”

  The intruder thrust out her hand. “Dawn Galloway. Muddle Harbor Chronicle.”

  “Jeez,” Russ said. “When did they hire you?”

  “Yesterday. But that doesn’t matter. I . . .”

  “You can tell Mayor Baumgartner . . .” Sue-Anne said.

  “Sue-Anne,” a man yelled, “you are so out of your depth here.” I recognized one of my dad’s oldest friends and a staunch ally of his on the council.

  “We have to present a united front,” a woman said. No one paid any attention to her.

  “I’d suggest,” Russ said, trying to be heard above the din, “that you people stop arguing in front of a reporter. Two reporters, actually.” He turned to Dawn. “Russell Durham. Rudolph Gazette. What’s going on?”

  “I came to ask Acting Mayor Morrow for a comment. She flew into a hissy fit.”

  “I did not . . .” Sue-Anne said.

  Russ ignored her. “Comment about what?”

  “About those blasted Muddites putting on a children’s Christmas party, that’s what,” someone shouted from the back.

  “I didn’t realize,” Dawn sniffed, “Rudolph is the only town around here allowed to have holiday celebrations.”

  “Not at all,” Russ said. “Everyone’s welcome to celebrate the season as they see fit. It’s just that some folks are being a mite underhanded in attacking other towns.”

  “That’s not the Christmas spirit,” I said. Everyone ignored me.

  “Would you agree with Mr. Durham, Mrs. Morrow?” Dawn asked, pencil poised.

  Sue-Anne gaped.

  “I’m sure we all have work to get back to,” Russ said. “Good-bye, Dawn.”

  “I’m not finished here.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Her shoulders were set, and for a moment she looked as though she were going to argue, but then she relaxed. She gave Russ a smug grin that seemed to say, Just between us newspaper people, then held up her phone. “First, a quick picture.”

  Sue-Anne lifted her chin and sucked in her stomach. Russ stepped between them. “I’ll get someone to send you an official photo. How’s that?”

  “It’ll do,” Dawn said.

  Wendy stepped forward. “Let me show you to the door,” she said. The door was about two feet away.

  “If there are any new developments,” Dawn said, “feel free to contact me, Mrs. Morrow.” She walked out.

  Once the door shut behind her, the room exploded. The anger, as far as I could tell, was aimed at Randy Baumgartner in particular and the entire population of Muddle Harbor in general.

  “We ought to head over there and burn the whole place to the ground,” one of the councillors said.

  I pushed aside an image of torches and pitchforks.

  “That sort of talk isn’t helping,” Russ said.

  “What we have to do,” I said, “is issue a statement of support for my dad and ask him to come back as Santa Claus.”

  Sue-Anne turned on me. “We can’t have a Santa who’s under police investigation!”

  “By removing him from his job, you might as well come out and say you think he’s guilty.”

  Sue-Anne threw up her hands. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. Ralph, what’s your take?”

  “Me?” Ralph Dickerson said. “I, uh . . . I think that . . .”

  “What’s done is done,” someone said. “No matter what we do now, the Muddites will twist it to suit them.”

  The door crashed open and Alan Anderson flew in, propelled by a gust of cold, wet air. His head and shoulders were soaked and his coat dotted with rain. He shook off water like a dog coming out of the lake. He spotted me and gave me a soft, shy smile, before turning to the group and asking, “What’s going on?”

  No one bothered to enlighten him. “We’re ruined anyway!” the ever-cheerful Ralph said. “I hope you business folks aren’t relying on a big weekend.” He walked away, muttering. The crowd began to break up. Sue-Anne glared at me before turning on her stiletto heels and tapping her furious way back to her office.

  Soon only Wendy, Russ, Alan, and I remained in the reception area.

  “That went well,” Wendy said.

  “What happened?” Alan asked.

  “Some new reporter from the Chronicle came in asking to speak to Sue-Anne. I buzzed her office and she came down. When the reporter told her what Randy Baumgartner had said, you could hear Sue-Anne’s screech in every corner of the building. Naturally, everyone came out to see what was going on.” Wendy dropped her voice. “Sue-Anne’s a drama queen. Never happy if she isn’t in the center of the crowd. She has yet to understand that some crowds are not worth being in the center of.”

  “They really hired Kyle Lambert to be Santa?” I said.

  Wendy nodded. “Yup.”

  Alan groaned. “Kyle. I can’t imagine a worse choice.”

  “No one else applied,” Wendy said.

  “They should cancel the weekend’s festivities,” Russ said. “Easy enough to blame it on the weather.”

  “You can suggest that to Sue-Anne,” Wendy said. “Tell her she’s going to miss her first chance to officially open the weekend as the acting mayor. Tell her she’s not going to have her picture in the paper looking suitably mayoral. I’ve heard she went to Rochester to shop for a new coat and hat to wear.”

  “I get your point,” Russ said. He headed for the door, and Alan and I exchanged glances before following him out.

  The three of us stood on the steps, watching the cold rain fall and people running for cover.

  “Wasn’t supposed to start raining until Friday,” Russ said.

  “Maybe that means it will end soon and we’ll get more snow for the weekend,” I said, ever the optimist.

  “Better if it keeps raining.” Alan spoke to Russ. “I’ve told Merry I won’t be putting in an appearance as the toymaker if Noel isn’t Santa.”

  “My mom won’t bring her classes to sing in the bandstand,” I added. I glanced toward the lake. The park between the town offices and the bay was a vast expanse of white, with the occasional snowman looking wet and miserable. “Weren’t they going to make a rink for skating in case the bay’s too soft? They’d better get to work if they want it to be ready Friday night.”

  “Your dad offered to take care of that,” Alan said.

  Russ laughed. “This whole town would fall apart without
Noel Wilkinson. I can guarantee Sue-Anne and Ralph will look out the window Saturday morning, notice there’s no place for skating, and tear strips off the staff.”

  “The only way we can save this town,” I said, “is by proving my dad’s innocence. Russ, finish your story.” I shivered as a raindrop found its way through my scarf and slid down the back of my neck. “But first, let’s get someplace warm.”

  “Bakery’s still open,” Russ said.

  “Definitely not a good idea to go there,” I said, thinking of how happy Vicky had been. “Not if we’re talking about Mark.”

  “What about Mark?” Alan asked.

  “Come on. We can use my office. It’s closest,” I said. We hurried down the sidewalk to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. Night had come early, heralded by rapidly moving black clouds, and the lights of my shop glowed warm and enticing against the gloom. Jackie was trying on earrings and necklaces for a pudgy older man, obviously shopping for his wife’s Christmas present. Two women studied stuffed Santas, another had her arms piled high with boxes of tree decorations and rooted through our stock searching for more.

  “Oh good. You’re here,” Jackie called as I came in. “I could use some help.”

  “Be right out,” I said, leading the way to my office.

  The men stuffed themselves in, and I shut the door firmly behind us. I hung my coat, scarf, and gloves on the hook. Russ and Alan didn’t take off their coats. The small, enclosed room soon filled with the unpleasant scent of wet wool drying.

  “What about Mark?” Alan asked again as he leaned up against the wall.

  Russ repeated what he’d told me so far. Then he took a deep breath. “And it was all a scam.”

  “What was?” I asked.

  “The escarole and mustard greens grown by hand. The chicken and pork enjoying happy chicken and pig lives until a quick, easy death. The heirloom tomatoes and carrots. Yeah, there was some of that, but mixed in with stuff that came from the same suppliers as your local fast-food emporium.”

  “Oh dear,” I said.

  “Couldn’t people tell they were being served inferior food?” Alan asked.