We Wish You a Murderous Christmas

by Vicki Delany

  But a friend, I realized as I put my key into the lock of my shop, was all I wanted him to be.

  * * *

  Not long after opening, Clark Thatcher came into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. He was a twenty-something man, but he dressed like a juvenile delinquent, in pants slung so low he had trouble walking, and when he bent over he left far too little to the imagination. He wore a sports team T-shirt that may have been clean a long time ago, and sneakers the size of Santa Claus’s float, dragging filthy laces behind them. My storage room shares a wall with the Nook, and on several occasions I’d heard Betty yelling at him to go home and change. But he never did, and one time she told me, without looking into my face, that Clark gave the shop a hip urban vibe young people liked. I don’t think Betty knows what a hip urban vibe means.

  “Got any change, Merry?” he asked.

  I had plenty of change. The day was only beginning. “Some. How much do you need?”

  He dug in his pocket and came up with a tattered bill. He waved Benjamin Franklin at me.

  “I don’t have a hundred dollars’ worth to spare. Sorry.”

  “Guy paid with this and took all my change. What am I gonna do?”

  “Go to the bank like anyone else?”

  He looked confused at the concept.

  “The bank? You know, the place a couple of doors down, next to Candy Cane Sweets, the one with a big blue sign out front.”

  “I know where the bank is, Merry, but Mom told me not to leave the store.”

  “You’re going to have to,” I said. “None of the other stores will be able to help you, either.”

  The right side of his lip twisted in a grimace. “Okay. Guess I can lock up for a few minutes.”

  Something was very familiar about that grimace. I’d never looked closely at Clark before, but I did now. His eyes were small and dark brown like his mother’s, but whereas her face was round and came to a sharp little point, his chin was almost perfectly square.

  Was it possible?

  “Hold on a minute,” I said. “I want to ask you something, Clark.”

  He hitched up his pants. They fell down again. “Whatever.”

  I pulled out my phone and flicked quickly through my pictures. “My sister bought her son a toy Santa. But . . . uh . . . the dog got it and destroyed it. She asked me to get her another one just like it. Do you stock these in the Nook?” I held out the phone.

  Clark stepped closer to have a look. He smelled of unwashed clothes, tobacco smoke, and far too many male hormones. I watched him carefully. He shrugged, not caring much. “Yeah, it’s one of ours. But we’re outa stock now, sorry.”

  I put my phone away. “I’ll look around town, then. Do you know if any of the other stores carry the same one?”

  Another shrug. “Don’t know.”

  “Where’s your mom, anyway?” I asked. “She’s always at the store in the morning, isn’t she?” Betty was at the Nook whenever it was open, every day of the week and all hours of the day. Clark was her only employee, and she didn’t trust him on his own. I didn’t know if the reason she didn’t have staff was that she couldn’t afford them, or if she simply didn’t mind doing it all herself. (I had also considered that she was such a mean old dragon, she couldn’t keep anyone on.) As far as I knew, Clark was her only child. There had never been any mention of a husband, and I never cared enough to ask about her life away from Jingle Bell Lane.

  I was beginning to care now. “Did she say where she was going or how long she’d be away?”

  If Clark thought it was none of my business, he didn’t show it. “Just out. Back in an hour. Like yesterday.”

  “Oh, she went out yesterday?”

  “Yeah. In the afternoon. I guess she’s starting to trust me around her precious junk.” Another twist of the lip. I’d seen that gesture before, and I knew where.

  Jack Olsen used the exact same mannerism. The square shape of Clark’s face, particularly the strong chin, was identical to Jack’s.

  Jack Olsen was Clark Thatcher’s father.

  “What time did your mom go out yesterday?” I asked.

  Clark’s eyes narrowed. “What do you care what she does?”

  “Uh . . . a car was driving down Jingle Bell Lane yesterday, looked very suspicious. The police asked me to keep an eye out. I was going to ask Betty if she’d noticed it.”

  He stuffed the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket and headed for the door, bored with my company. “Around two or two thirty, I guess. She was real upset when she got back. She’s been acting pretty strange lately. I told one of my buddies about it, and he said it’s the change. Whatever that is.”

  Clark sauntered out. Was it possible? Yes it was. Clark Thatcher bore a strong resemblance to Jack Olsen. I’d never noticed it before, but there was no reason I should have: I’d never seen the two of them together. According to the font of all knowledge, Mrs. D’Angelo, Jack had numerous affairs during his first marriage, and some people suspected he’d fathered children by his lovers.

  Betty Thatcher had, against all habit and custom, left Rudolph’s Gift Nook in the care of her son yesterday afternoon around the time I was at the Yuletide Inn talking to Mark Grosse. She’d left her shop again this morning.

  I ran toward my office to grab my bag before I remembered that I had, as usual, left my car at home. No time to get it. I punched buttons on my phone and headed for the front door. “This is an emergency. I need a ride.”

  “What kind of emergency?” Vicky Casey said. “I’m up to my elbows in pastry.”

  “The kind that can’t wait.” I ran out of my shop, not bothering to get my coat or boots or to lock the door behind me. “I’m heading your way. I’ll be there in one minute. I am not kidding, Vicky, this is important.”

  “The van’s out back. You can borrow it.”

  “I can’t drive a shift. You’ll have to take me. Please, Vicky.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “One minute. I’ll meet you at the van.”

  The town maintenance crew had been out in force. The sidewalks were scraped clean and enough salt had been laid down to turn Lake Ontario into an inland sea. I flew down the street, passing startled browsers and curious townspeople. The walkway leading to the road at the back of the bakery joins up with the police parking lot. I debated running into the station and demanding to see Detective Simmonds. She’d dismissed my concerns yesterday, and I feared she’d accuse me of overreacting at best and deliberately trying to attract attention to myself at worst. Still, I hesitated. At that very moment, Officer Candy Campbell appeared, keys swinging in her hand, heading for the building. She saw me and stopped short. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, Merry? Let me guess. You’re going to solve a murder, aren’t you?” She laughed. “Better not. I overheard Simmonds yesterday complaining about civilians with overactive imaginations. That wouldn’t be you she was talking about, would it?”

  I turned left, toward the bakery, instead of right to the police station.

  Vicky was waiting for me in the van, the engine running. I leapt in. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Get to the Yuletide, fast as you can.” I turned in my seat. “Better wait until Candy’s out of sight. Wouldn’t she just love to give us a speeding ticket.”

  Asking Vicky to step on it was kinda like asking Mattie to eat. No persuasion necessary. We tore out of town.

  “You going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked, as the snow-laden trees streaked past.

  “I might be off my rocker, but I have a very bad feeling. Let me talk to Dad.” I told Siri to call Dad. The phone rang for a long time before it was picked up.

  “Hello?” my mother said.

  “Mom! I’m glad you’re there. Let me speak to Dad.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at home. Where else
would I be? My regular ten o’clock student arrives in fifteen minutes.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Still at the inn, I would imagine. He spent last night with Jack and Grace, remember?”

  “Yes, yes. But why are you on his phone?”

  “He forgot it. It was ringing, so I picked it up. Now that I’m talking to you, dear, I have to say I’m worried about Eve. She . . .”

  I hung up.

  Vicky turned her head and looked at me. “Spill, Merry.”

  The car swerved and I yelped.

  “I am on it,” Vicky said, calmly returning to our lane. “What’s happening?”

  Words tumbled all over themselves as I tried to explain my thought process. “Sounds pretty far-fetched,” she said when I’d finished.

  “Maybe, but I need to warn Dad to be on his guard.”

  Vicky took the turn into the Yuletide Inn on two wheels. “Mark told me you came around to talk to him yesterday.”

  “We can discuss that later. Park over there. In front of Jack and Grace’s house.”

  “I just wanna say he thinks I’m lucky to have such a good friend.”

  I looked at her. “He does?”

  “Yeah, he does. And,” she said softly, “I think so, too.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Back to the matter at hand. “Drop me off and go and get Mark.”

  “He might not be in this early.”

  “If not, find Grace and come to the house. Let me out here.” I didn’t even wait for the bakery van to come to a full stop before I leapt out. I stumbled as my flat-soled shoes hit the ground, but managed to keep my footing and sprinted up the front path.

  I leaned on the bell. I tried the handle. Locked. “Dad! It’s me, Merry. Open up.” I hammered on the door. No answer. I put my ear to the door. I might have heard voices from inside, but I couldn’t make out any words. I’d have to go around the back to see what, if anything, was happening.

  For once the normally busy hotel grounds were quiet. No staff were arriving for work or taking a smoke break. No happy families heading out to enjoy the day. Vicky was not coming to the rescue with a knife-wielding Chef Mark Grosse.

  I jumped off the front step and ran to the side of the house. The driveway was wet with slush and cold water leaked through my shoes. My dad’s car was parked in front of the garage. I hesitated and glanced back at the front door. No one had opened it to stand there looking out, wondering what was going on. I didn’t know what to do. Why had I sent Vicky away? I’d have to chance someone answering the front door while I was on my way to the back.

  I saw them the moment I reached the path to the gate. Footprints. Fresh ones. The imprint of zigzag treads perfectly clear in the slushy snow. The same marks I’d seen yesterday. The older ones were fading into indeterminate depressions as the snow softened with the rising temperatures. Not worrying about where I placed my feet I ran across the snowy lawn and up the slippery steps to the deck. I had enough presence of mind to keep a firm grip on the banister. I wore thin leather ballet flats with no tread. It wouldn’t help anyone if I slipped and broke a leg.

  Something was very much out of place, but for a moment I couldn’t think what it was. Slowly recognition dawned. The drapes were fluttering gently in the breeze. Outside the house. No one would leave their French doors open in this weather, certainly not with an invalid in the house. I crept forward. The snow on the deck seemed particularly bright and sparkly. When my eyes focused I realized that shards of glass covered the snow and ice.

  One panel of the French doors was shattered.

  Chapter 16

  This time I did call the police. Good thing I had Simmonds in my contacts list. I didn’t even have to punch in my password and find her name. I held down the big round button, trying to keep my voice steady and said, “Call Diane Simmonds.” Good old Siri, the Apple electronic assistant, understood and in seconds that seemed like hours, I heard the strong voice of the detective saying, “What is it now, Merry?”

  I did not bother to exchange the usual courtesies. “Someone’s broken into the Olsen house. There’s glass everywhere at the back and no one’s answering the door.”

  “Do not go into the house, Merry. Go to the road and wait for us to arrive. I’m sending officers now.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “but my dad’s in there.” I cut off her protest and stuffed the phone into my jacket pocket. Heart pounding, I reached the French doors. I pressed my back against the wall and tried to stretch my neck to peer inside.

  Legs. I saw legs, stretched out on the carpet. Long legs dressed in baggy brown trousers. The right sock was worn almost through at the heel.

  Dad. He never did take care of his clothes, and my mom said she wasn’t his housekeeper.

  “What do I want!” a woman screamed. “You know what I want. What I’ve always wanted.”

  I stepped forward. Glass crunched under my shoes. My dad was on the floor, not moving. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. One of the sturdy iron candlesticks lay beside him. I crossed the threshold and slipped into the house, taking care not to touch the jagged shards of glass protruding from the edges of the doors, thankful I wore winter clothes. Jack Olsen sat in the same chair he’d been in when I was last here, the same blanket tossed over his legs. But he’d lost the slightly vacant expression he had yesterday. His eyes flashed with anger, and his fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles had turned white.

  Betty Thatcher faced him. She held a knife out in front of her. It was a kitchen knife, an ordinary kitchen knife you can find just about anywhere, but the blade was long and deadly sharp.

  “Betty,” I said.

  She half turned. “You! Why can’t you stop interfering in other people’s affairs? I saw you leaving the police station the other day. I should have left you to fall and crack your nosy head open. I tried to warn you off, but would you listen? No, not you. You’re not wanted here. This has nothing to do with you. Leave now.”

  “You hurt my dad,” I said.

  “He’s okay. Little tap on the head is all.”

  At that moment I heard the most wonderful sound in the world. My father groaned and tried to roll over.

  “Told ya,” Betty said. “Now you can go. Take that silly man who thinks he’s Santa Claus with you.”

  “I can’t do that, Betty. You’re scaring Jack. He’s recovering from a heart attack—this is bound to be very upsetting to him. Why don’t you put the knife down and we can talk about it?”

  “I’m done talking,” she said. “All I’ve ever heard are promises. Promises that come to nothing.” She reached into her coat pocket with her free hand and pulled out a piece of paper. She waved it in Jack’s face. “I want your signature on this. Now.”

  “A signature given under duress has no legal standing,” Jack said. “You’re wasting your time, you stupid woman.”

  “Don’t you call me that,” she screamed.

  “I know about Clark,” I said. “I know he’s Jack’s son. You only want what’s best for Clark, don’t you, Betty?”

  “Darn straight,” she said. “All these years, Jack’s been promising to do right by my boy. Someday, it’s always going to be someday.”

  A knock on the front door. Vicky called out, “Merry! Open the door.” In the depths of my pocket, my phone rang.

  I didn’t dare turn around, but I heard Dad groaning as he struggled to his feet. I couldn’t go to him and help. I kept my eyes fixed on Betty. If she lunged for Jack, I had to be able to reach her in time. He was angry now, and that was good, but he was in no physical condition to dodge her or the business end of that knife. “I’ve called the police,” I said.

  “We don’t need the cops,” Betty said. “This is a private matter.”

  “What’s the paper say?” I asked.

  My phone stopped ringing. The hammering on the door conti
nued.

  “A new will,” Betty said. “Jack promising to leave the inn to Clark. Now that Clark’s Jack’s only living son, I figure it’s time he acknowledged my boy publicly.”

  I couldn’t help it. My eyes flicked to Jack. His face was deathly pale. His lip twisted in the way that had been my first clue as to what was going on. “You killed my son,” he said in a voice as icy cold as the wind blowing through the living room drapes. “You killed Gordon.”

  I felt the air change as someone stepped through the shattered French doors. I glanced aside quickly to see Mark Grosse. The blade in his hand was longer and sharper than the one Betty clutched.

  “The police are on their way.” I tried to signal to Mark to stay back.

  Betty didn’t seem to have noticed the new arrival. “You said you’d give my Clark a job at the hotel. Train him to be in a position to take it over one day. But you went and fired him!”

  “I fired him,” Jack said, “because he was a waste of space. All he had to do was replace a lightbulb in a guest room, and he walked in without knocking when the guests were enjoying a private moment. I’m lucky we weren’t sued. I had to give them the entire weekend for free and comp all their meals on top of it. I gave Clark a chance, Betty. He messed it up.”

  I doubt Betty even heard him. “You promised me you’d share the property with both your sons. Then he arrived and started talking about selling it all off. You said you’d give Clark another chance for a job in the hotel. But there wasn’t going to be a hotel, not if that Gord had his way. So he had to go. What else could I do?”

  “Put the knife down, lady,” Mark said. “I have a bigger one.”

  “We’re good here, Mark,” I said. “Aren’t we, Betty? Jack, why don’t you sign the paper and we can all go home.”

  In the distance, I heard the welcome sound of sirens approaching.

  “I’m not signing anything,” Jack said. Oh great, now he was getting back to his spirited self. “I told you Clark will be provided for, and he will. More than he deserves. But he isn’t getting any part of my business.”