by Jean Rabe
Piper wished the stuffed Santa Claus on Conrad’s sleigh would have “said” something, pointed a clue to the killer, but so far nothing—though test results wouldn’t be back from the state lab for some time. The music flowed from speakers and mingled with the chatter of the shoppers that she threaded her way through. Cinnamon and peppermint were thick in the air.
Christmas Eve is coming soon, now you dear old man
Whisper what you’ll bring to me. Tell me if you can.
“Tell me something,” Piper said. Tell me why some sick S.O.B. would kill two elderly people who supposedly had no enemies. Sick and twisted S.O.B., Piper mentally corrected, maybe one who hated Christmas as much as his victims seemed to love it.
When the clock is striking twelve, when I’m fast asleep
Down the chimney, broad and black, with your pack you’ll creep.
Did the killer come upon Abigail when she was sleeping? When Conrad slept?
All the stockings you will find hanging in a row,
Mine will be the shortest one, you’ll be sure to know.
And why leave the signature of a Merry Christmas mug with a price sticker on the bottom, clearly indicating it came from this very store?
Johnny wants a pair of skates, Susie wants a sled
Nellie wants a picture book, yellow, blue, and red
A red mug, all bright and shiny and noticeable, a signature that stands out. Was he wishing his victims a belated Merry Christmas? Had they done something at Christmas to piss him off? Could she find a similar mug in this store today?
Now I think I’ll leave to you
What to give the rest
Choose for me dear Santa Claus
What you think is best.
“Is she looking for shoplifters?” A boy nudged a woman that was likely his grandmother and pointed at Piper.
“Maybe she’s shopping like us? Don’t point. It’s not polite.”
Go Tell it on the Mountain came through the speakers as Piper strolled along the far wall filled with nutcrackers. They ranged from beautiful hand-carved wood designs painted in pastels that could be displayed proudly in china cabinets to man-high nutcrackers in bright blue, red, and white. One of the largest had eyes that sent a shiver down her back. It looked disturbing, and she thought it could be featured in a SyFy channel horror flick. Mrs. Thornbridge had a nutcracker with a pug dog head on an end table near the Christmas tree.
She passed by an assortment of holiday-themed wine bottle holders and delicate crystal knickknacks. A shelf full of scented candles added to the bouquet; she caught a pleasant whiff of vanilla. People obviously bought this stuff—otherwise it wouldn’t be offered in quantity. But why fill your life and house with all the clutter? A waste of money, she thought. Or maybe Army life had made her too minimalistic. The candles, okay, she understood—you lit them, they looked pretty, smelled nice, and then they were gone and took up no space.
Maybe it was all some obsession. Her father’s ornament collection certainly was.
A bevy of glass and ceramic dinosaurs in natural and unnatural colors hung from a tree covered in pinpoint white lights. She hadn’t seen dinosaur ornaments before, and if she wasn’t here for business, she might have picked up the purple tyrannosaurus for her father. Next was a display of spaceships and aliens hanging from every branch of a midnight blue fake fir. Piper had to nudge herself along, the child deep inside encouraging her to pick up the spangled flying saucer…at least for a close look.
Dog breed ornaments were on a larger tree, which brought her back to Miss Thornbridge. Abigail would have picked a pug ornament, maybe more than one. Piper had noticed a couple of pug decorations on the old woman’s tree, in addition to the angel with the pug head. There might have been more pug Christmas trinkets, but she hadn’t stayed at the scene all that long because Randy and Oren had it well in hand. A black pug sitting in a high-backed red chair, a brindle pug curled in a bed, a pug in a Santa suit, a pug head with a candy cane in its mouth dangled from branches.
“Oh, look at that one!” Piper hadn’t noticed her dad approach. He gently removed the black pug in the chair and put it in his basket next to a few other ornaments he’d selected. “It’s not on sale, but it looks like Wrinkles. Might have it personalized. See, there’s a space right here. Whatcha think, Punkin? Wrinkles? Or Mr. Wrinkles?” Before she could answer, he wandered away, acting like a giddy twelve-year-old.
Had Mrs. Thornbridge been like that when she visited the shop, youth thrust upon her as she ogled the pug ornaments? How often had she come here? How often had the killer?
“Meemaw, is she gonna arrest somebody?” The boy, pointing again.
Piper wandered toward the cards, which Miss Thornbridge clearly visited, and she zeroed in on the SALE section. Boxes and boxes of cards on display, and after some looking she found one matching the design that Abigail had sent Conrad…that Sweet Abby T had been posed to resemble. Piper cradled the box under her arm and kept looking. Wrapping paper, bows, tags, and rows of trees, much of it on discount.
She stared at the lighted trees in another area, most in shades of green, but there was a pastel pink one with flickering white lights, a purple tree, and at the far back a baby blue that she had to concede was pretty. Some tabletop size, some towering at nine or ten feet with branches frosted and looking so real.
Deck the Halls started blaring, one of her father’s favorite tunes. A thickset middle-aged woman in front of Piper started singing along…others joined in.
The store was altogether massive, especially for such a small town, had been several smaller stores at one time, she guessed, with doorways cut in the walls to link them. There was a room where an artist sat at a table personalizing ornaments—she saw her father in there—the tree room, the card and paper room. The largest room was a showcase of everything—trees and ornaments and cabinets filled with beautiful Christmas-themed dust catchers. Had Miss Thornbridge walked through all of it on every visit?
And the killer?
Piper went through another doorway into a smaller section; this room had been her favorite as a child. More than a dozen different kinds of fudge and cookies were displayed in a bakery case. However, not much was left of any variety; like the sale ornaments, the goodies had been picked over. A small sign said: everything must go today. The prices were so good that Piper caved and came away with six pieces of walnut fudge and nine of chocolate-mint. For her dad, she told herself, but they were large chunks, and she’d picked out so many that some would come her way. She added a dozen assorted cookies and a pound of chocolate covered almonds, and the clerk put everything in a large bag. The thought of buying the purple tyrannosaurus crept into her head.
“You’ll have to pay for those Christmas cards in the main room.”
Piper nodded. There were only a few people behind her.
“Did you know an Abigail Thornbridge?”
The clerk dipped her chin and shrugged, looked around Piper as if wanting her to move along so she could wait on the next shopper. Piper did a juggling act, and with a now-free hand reached into her pocket and pulled out a computer printed photo of Miss Thornbridge.
“Sure,” the clerk said. “That’s Sweet Abby T, right?”
“Yeah, I heard she was called that.”
“A regular…an after Christmas regular mostly, looking for bargains. Always goes for the plain fudge, a four-piece box. We’re out of the plain fudge. Just about out of everything.”
“Did she shop here alone?”
“Usually.” The clerk’s brow knitted. “Something happen to her?”
The county paper was a weekly so the news story and obituary wouldn’t have appeared yet. Piper said, “Thanks,” and moved along.
Normally Santa Clause—a man dressed as Santa—sat at a table in the sweets room in a throne-like chair that today was empty. Kids could sit and chat or have their picture taken with him. A sign on the table said: Returned to the North Pole, see you again this May.
In Miss Thornbridge�
��s living room there had been a small framed picture on the shelf of Abigail, Santa, and an unknown elderly woman. Judging by the throne-like chair it was shot here. So Miss Thornbridge had indulged in a little childhood frivolity.
She carried her prized treats into the next room, where her legs locked. Across from her a SALE banner stretched above a long, many-tiered display. Most of the shelves had been heavily picked over, and the remaining goods included twists of silvery garland and lengths of colorful beads, candy cane-shaped soap dispensers, artificial floral arrangements, reindeer figurines, and on the top shelf a half-dozen mugs.
Including a bright red one with Merry Christmas scrawled on it.
Piper’s throat tightened. There were shoppers in front of the shelves, moving around the packages of garland. A young woman with broad shoulders and wearing an ankle-length quilted coat held up a snowman-shaped peppermill and giggled with delight.
“Only two dollars. Midgey! Midgey! Look what I found! It’s almost like the one I broke.”
Piper pressed herself against a gap between man-high plastic peppermint sticks and waited for an opening in the browsers.
Had the killer seen Miss Thornbridge shopping here? Mr. Delaney? Is that why the killer bought the Merry Christmas mugs and left them as a signature, because they visited the store? Looked at the mugs?
“Move it, sister,” said a hawk-nosed woman with tight white curls. She nudged the broad-shouldered woman aside and reached for a package of gold and red garland. “Other people are shopping here, too.”
“Happy New Year, bitch,” returned the broad-shouldered woman, who clutched her snowman prize and fled the room.
Had Miss Thornbridge or Mr. Delaney done something here to irk the killer…like hawk-nosed had rattled the broad-shouldered woman with the snowman peppermill?
What was the motive?
“Maybe you should shop somewhere else, asshat,” a teenager cursed hawk-nosed. The teen stretched up and grabbed one of the mugs, this in the image of a cartoon moose head. “Maybe the sheriff should arrest you for misconduct.” She gestured to Piper, and then continued perusing the gaudy wares.
How had the killer selected his victims?
Why Conrad Delaney and Abigail Thornbridge?
Piper saw an opening and stepped in, grabbed the sole Merry Christmas mug, and headed toward the counter, the questions tumbling over each other and begging to get out.
Sixteen
The final chords of I Saw Three Ships played as Piper reached the front of the line.
She placed the Merry Christmas mug and the box of cards on the counter, the bag with her treats beside them. “I’d like these…and I’d like to talk to the manager.”
“That would be me, Sheriff,” returned the thirty-something woman at the cash register. She was stunning, in a claret pantsuit with a dainty sprinkle of beads around the collar, long neck which helped show off dangly crystal snowflake earrings. Her blonde hair was cut short and her nose slightly upturned, bringing to mind the image of a pixie. Her makeup was Cover Girl quality. “Is there a problem?”
“Two of them,” Piper said. Abigail Thornbridge and Conrad Delaney.
Several minutes later, after the manager found a clerk to take her place at the counter, they sat at the small table near the Santa throne. All of the goodies had sold out of the bakery case; the sweet shop was closed, though Piper could still pick out the heady scent of chocolate.
“I need to find out who bought a few of these.” Piper took the Merry Christmas mug out of her bag and set it in front of her.
“We sold a lot of those mugs, in red and green.” The manager passed over the list of employees and their phone numbers that Piper had requested. “But I don’t think any of my people bought them.” A pause. “But I remember a man who bought a lot of them. And I’m the one who rang him up.”
“When was it? When did he buy the mugs?”
The manager’s forehead wrinkled while she thought. “I think it was a Wednesday, maybe a Thursday. The first week of December. We were so busy busy busy that week. I hadn’t seen him in here before, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t. I couldn’t give you a name. You’ll have to ask the girls…if they’d seen him before, knew him. One of them might. We get oodles of customers all year, especially in December. I’m only good with the regulars. And I’m good at coats and hats and spotting great high heels.” She smiled wide. “Awesome to see your father back here, by the way. How is he doing?”
“Good. He’s doing good.” Though Piper didn’t know that to be true. She pulled a small recorder from a pocket, unzipped her jacket and shrugged out of it. “Do you mind?”
“Record me?” The manager touched her nose. “I guess so. Sure. Go ahead.”
“You are—”
“Vivian Moss.” Mrs. Piper thought, noticing the ring on the woman’s left hand.
“Thanks for taking the time. I know you’re busy. Before we’re done here today I’d like to see some video, Mrs. Moss, of customers at your counter, from that first week of December. It’s important, and—”
“We don’t have any video, Sheriff, though the owner has thought about it. We have some theft, but not a lot, all things considered. Especially given how many people come through. Minor, really. It’s just smalls that get stolen. We all keep a pretty close eye on folks, though. Catch a few every year. And we prosecute, no matter what their story.”
“Fine, no video. Then can I see the credit card receipts from that week, Mrs. Moss, from the day that you sold the mugs, and—”
“Viv, please. He paid cash. I remember that. And he counted change out, like he wasn’t sure he’d have enough money. In fact, he didn’t, was twenty or thirty cents shy. I put in the rest and told him Merry Christmas. So no credit card records either, no check. Cash. Bought the three big Merry Christmas mugs that were on the shelf, and had asked if we had any more. That’s why I remember the sale. He said he wanted all the red Merry Christmas mugs we had. And said if we didn’t have more, where could he order them? There was a half-dozen green ones like it, Merry Christmas, but he said they had to be red. I found more in the back room. He ended up buying eleven, I remember because it was one short of a dozen. He could have had a dozen, but he didn’t want that one. Plus, he was a tad short on the eleven as it was.” She tapped her index finger on the rim of the Merry Christmas mug Piper had purchased for a dollar and set on the table between them. “The design on that one is crooked, see? That’s why I marked it so cheap. One dollar. Originally they sold for ten-fifty.”
“Eleven mugs.”
“Yes, Sheriff. All we had,” the manager returned. “Well, all we had with the design printed correctly and that were red. Pick it up. The mug has a good feel to it. And they sold well. We’d moved a dozen before Mr. I Want Them All came in. Moved all the green ones, too, eventually. We won’t reorder them for next season, though, as we always try to bring in new designs each year. I like the company, though, good product.”
A husband and wife walked through the room, headed toward another part of the store. The man sang boisterously to Good King Wenceslas: “Mark my footsteps good, my page, tread thou in them boldly. Though shalt find the winter’s rage freeze thy blood less coldly.”
Piper hefted the mug and stared at the inside. Ceramic, heavily glazed, a little over-sized and shiny as Rudolph’s nose, it would hold maybe sixteen ounces of coffee. She set it back down. “What did he look like, Mr. I Want Them All?”
Vivian leaned forward. “What’s going on? Katie said you’ve been showing a picture of Sweet Abby T around.”
Piper let out a breath, strong enough to ruffle her bangs. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“Into what?”
“I can’t say.”
“Oh, come on.”
Take a chance, Piper thought. Abigail Thornbridge’s death was public record, and it would be in the paper, maybe in tomorrow’s edition. Conrad’s death would be in there, too. “Abigail—”
“Sweet Abby T
—”
“Was found dead yesterday, and—”
“Really? Well, she was up there.” Vivian scowled, tiny cracks showing in her apple red lipstick. “And what does that have to do with our big red Merry Christmas mugs and the man in the Colts jacket?”
Piper felt like she’d been struck in the stomach. “Colts jacket?” Her voice was soft. There was a man in an Indianapolis Colts jacket on Conrad Delaney’s driveway. And at the quick stop shortly before the truck ran her off the road—and he’d looked familiar, looked right at her while she was eating her late lunch. Oren would have the man’s name, said he had everyone’s name from the Hagee New Year’s Eve party, and had talked to them. Maybe they could take the man into custody before lunch. She’d radio Randy from the car.
Vivian had been saying something, but Piper missed it. Didn’t matter, she was recording the conversation.
“The jacket—”
“Yes. The man who bought the mugs…the man in the leather Colts jacket. Was probably quite expensive, that jacket. Leather. You get something ‘officially licensed’ by the NFL, like some of our ornaments, and it costs more than it really should.” Vivian clutched at the mug. “Is he related to Abby? The man in the jacket? Are you trying to find him to notify—”
“No, it’s not like that.” Piper didn’t like to lie. It was in the sheriff’s department records—that were public—that Conrad Delaney had been murdered. The report on Abigail Thornbridge listed it, too…though only a handful of specifics would be in either set of records. Ongoing investigations, lots of things would be left out for awhile. “Abigail Thornbridge was murdered. We found her body yesterday morning.”
“Murdered?” Vivian looked a shade paler. “I’d figured a heart attack or stroke or just her years caught up. Murder?”
Piper dropped her voice again. “What did the man look like? In the Colts jacket?” She wanted a description; there was bound to be more than one man with an Indianapolis Colts jacket in the county. Too much of a coincidence though, for this not to be “the guy.”
“A murder? In Spencer County?” Vivian’s knuckles went white against the mug.
