We Wish You a Murderous Christmas

by Vicki Delany

  “He’s probably right about that,” I said.

  “Betty had heard talk that the inn was going to be sold, and she was furious because Clark wasn’t consulted. She tried to get into the hospital to see Jack, but was turned away as only family was allowed to visit. That enraged her even more. On the day Gord Olsen died, she’d been at the inn earlier, dropping off some items Grace ordered for decorations.”

  I remembered the cheap ornaments in the ladies’ room.

  “When Betty was leaving, she ran into Gord. She told him Clark was his half brother and demanded he involve Clark in plans for the inn. Gord essentially laughed in her face.”

  “I can see him doing that. He wasn’t a nice man.”

  “Gord walked away, leaving her steaming. She saw a room service tray left unattended and pocketed a steak knife.”

  I shivered.

  “She says she didn’t plan to kill Gord. She liked the knife and figured she deserved something nice from the hotel. That may or may not be true. It will be up to the prosecutor to prove premeditation. She returned to the inn later that evening, intending to tell Grace about Clark and demand Grace get Jack to do something. Instead, she saw Gord heading into the gardens, parked her car, and followed him. He mocked her and she stabbed him with the knife that just happened to still be in her pocket.”

  “What about the holly?”

  “The holly on Gord’s chest? She says she had some scraps of decorations in her pocket, and the holly came out when she pulled out the knife. She left it there, thinking it was a nice touch.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t buy that. That holly was fresh, not plastic, and you told me it had been cut from a display in the hotel. Betty doesn’t use real greenery in any of her decorations, and doesn’t sell it. Betty doesn’t care much about the Christmas Town spirit.”

  “Why do you think she used it?”

  “I think she’d deliberately tried to deflect police attention from herself by making it look as though the killer was someone trying to save the town of Rudolph. Someone like my dad, or any one of the business owners or town councillors.”

  “I noticed that little discrepancy, myself. You’re good at this detective business, Merry.”

  I smiled, enjoying the praise.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she said. “I can do my job on my own. Not that I expect we’ll have any more murders to solve in this little town.” Simmonds opened the office door. “I’d better see what damage Charlotte has done to your stock. We’re going to the park. I’ve registered us in the snow sculpture contest. The mother and daughter category.”

  “Good luck,” I said. “Competition is going to be fierce.”

  Her green eyes twinkled. “I’ve been known to be a mite competitive myself.”

  I had absolutely no doubt about that.

  I was beginning to think about lunch, when one more person came in wanting to talk about events of the previous evening. She burst through the doors, spotted me arranging tree ornaments, and headed over with her gloved hand outstretched. “Dawn Galloway, Muddle Harbor Chronicle.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Can you make a statement for the press?” Her voice boomed. Customers glanced up from their browsing, Crystal stopped ringing up purchases, and heads popped out of the alcoves.

  “No,” I said in my firmest voice.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  She stepped closer. “You see, Merry—may I call you Merry?”

  “I guess.”

  “I need this job, and I need an article for tomorrow’s paper. Right now, I got nothin’. No one will talk to me.” Her look was plaintive.

  “I’ll give you a statement,” Jackie said, abandoning the gray-haired lady who had spent the last ten minutes vacillating between the ornament that said “Baby’s First Christmas” and the one that proclaimed “Santa’s Newest Helper.” “If there’s a picture to go with it,” my assistant finished.

  “Sure,” Dawn said.

  “You have one minute,” I said, “starting now. And I don’t want a mention of my name or this shop.”

  “I always thought something was off about Betty Thatcher,” Jackie began.

  She kept to the one minute and then beamed while Dawn used her cell phone to snap a picture. Instead of leaving, the intrepid Chronicle reporter spotted a white ironstone turkey platter and pounced on it with an excited squeal.

  “Lunch is on me,” I said to Jackie and Crystal after Dawn had left proudly bearing not only the platter but a full set of matching serving dishes.

  I jotted down lunch orders and left the shop. I stood outside for a moment watching the activity. The air was crisp and cold, but there was no wind and the sun shone warm on my face. Smiling people strolled by, laden with bulging shopping bags, the Clydesdales headed for the inn to pick up another load, a lineup stretched out the door of Cranberry Coffee Bar, and another line was forming at the hot chocolate table outside the Elves’ Lunch Box. “Are we going to see Santa now?” an excited little girl asked, and when her mom said, “Yes,” she squealed in delight.

  A rusty Dodge Neon drove slowly down the street, searching for a parking spot. It was in luck, as the SUV outside the dark storefront of Rudolph’s Gift Nook pulled away at that moment. The Neon took its place with a great deal of inching back and forth and wheels striking the curb. A woman stepped out of the driver’s seat and slammed the car door. My breath caught in my throat.

  Betty Thatcher! Wasn’t she in jail? Surely she didn’t get bail?

  The woman saw me watching and scowled. It wasn’t Betty, but darn close. She was slightly heavier than the scrawny Betty and the hair peeking out from under her wool hat was an unnatural shade of dark brown, not Betty’s steel gray. The beady black eyes were exactly the same, as was the hawk nose and the expression on her face—like someone had slipped a lemon into her eggnog—when she spotted me. She marched over.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She looked me up and down, not liking what she saw. “I guess you’ll be Merry.”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “You look ridiculous in that getup.”

  “It’s my costume.”

  “If anyone expects me to dress in costume, they’ll be sadly disappointed.”

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “Margaret Thatcher. And no, I am not the former prime minister of England. I’m called Margie.”

  “You must be Betty’s sister. How . . . nice to meet you.”

  “Twin sister. The eldest by two minutes, if you must know.”

  I refrained from pointing out that I hadn’t asked.

  “I’ve come to run the store until Betty gets herself cleared of this unpleasantness. She told me all about you. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, so don’t you try anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  Margie looked around. If anything, her scowl deepened. “Christmas Town. Humbug.”

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