by Vicki Delany
“Okay, I’ll go by myself.”
Vicky sighed. “I’ll bite. Where are you going for this pleasant lunch with or without me?”
“The Muddle Harbor Café.”
“I can’t think of anything less appealing.”
“Did you hear that Jeff Vanderhaven died?”
“Yeah. Mark came to our delayed Christmas dinner at Aunt Marjorie’s and he told us what happened. Jeff and Luanne were at the inn to plan their wedding meal with Mark. I have to say I was surprised after what happened at your parents’ place that the wedding was still on. Mark said the police don’t seem to be treating it as though it was an accident.”
“They’re not. And, in light of what happened between Jeff and Chris the night before, Chris is, as they say, a person of interest to the police.”
“Bummer.”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re investigating?” Vicky asked.
“Not exactly, but I am interested in learning more about what Jeff’s been up to, and one of the things he’s been up to is a proposed Vanderhaven Development project in Muddle Harbor.”
“You’re going to try to pick up the local gossip at that awful restaurant?”
“Yup. I don’t expect to learn much, but I would like to get a feel for what the Muddites think about it, mainly if there really is a project Jeff’s death will interfere with or if it’s all nothing but smoke and mirrors.”
“I can’t go with you today,” Vicky said, “but I can tomorrow. Tomorrow morning’s better anyway. That café’s a breakfast meeting place for what passes as businessmen and politicians. At lunch, all you’ll get is high school kids.”
“School’s out for Christmas holidays.”
“Then you’ll get no one. Breakfast will be better.”
“You’re right. As always. I knew there’s a reason I keep you on as a friend.”
“Most amusing. I’ll pick you up at your place at seven o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be ready for a break by then anyway.” Vicky hung up.
I hated the very idea of someone who started their day so early that seven A.M. was break time.
* * *
* * *
The store had a good day. All the restaurants and shops in town should be pleased: the perfect early-winter weather— a light coating of snow, the air crisp and clear without bone-chilling temperatures or strong winds—had brought the tourists and shoppers onto Jingle Bell Lane in droves.
At four, I gave Jackie money out of petty cash to get us drinks from Cranberries. She returned with a small plain latte for me, a medium peach iced tea for Crystal, and an extra-large concoction topped with a mountain of whipped cream and covered with chocolate sprinkles for her.
“There must be a million calories in that thing,” Crystal said as she accepted her cup.
Jackie sniffed. “Unlike some people, I can handle it.” As well as being a college student, jewelry designer, part-time store clerk, and voice student of my mother’s, Crystal was a long-distance runner. Jackie’s dig hadn’t been aimed at her. I hoped my assistant manager was thinking of someone not currently standing in Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. When I lived and worked in Manhattan, I’d regularly visited a gym and joined my coworkers twice a week for yoga. Since moving back to Rudolph and opening the shop, I . . . hadn’t. I’d also been dropping into Victoria’s Bake Shoppe maybe more than was good for me.
“Sorry I took so long, Merry.” Jackie handed me my change. “Jane Wolcott stopped me on the street and told me Tiffany Ambrose, used to be Ravenswood, is putting together plans for a party tomorrow night. An impromptu reunion for our high school class while a bunch of the out-of-towners are here for the holidays. Sounds like fun. You should come.”
“I wasn’t in your class.” I’m two years older than Jackie.
“Neither was Tiffany. I think she was in your brother’s year. But that doesn’t matter. Some of us were in the same clubs or took advanced classes together.”
“What about me?” Crystal said. “Can I come?”
Jackie’s face fell.
“She’s kidding,” I said. “Two or three or even five years doesn’t matter at our age. But fifteen sure does.” Crystal had only graduated this past spring.
Crystal laughed. “Yup. Some of your crowd are old enough to be our parents.”
“Let’s not go there,” I said.
“Excuse me . . .” A woman peeked out from behind the Christmas tree.
Crystal put her take-out cup on the counter and hurried to help.
“Speaking of high school,” I said to Jackie. “Did you know Luanne Ireland back then?”
“Yeah, I did. She was good friends with my sister. Your brother, Chris, was part of their crowd for a while. He stopped coming around, and my sister told me he and Luanne had broken up.” Jackie glanced around the store, saw that no customers were approaching us needing assistance, and stepped closer to me. I refrained from groaning. I could guess what was coming. She spoke in a whisper. “Some people are saying Luanne planned to dump Jeff Vanderhaven and get back with Chris. Some are saying that’s why Jeff died.”
“Are you saying that, Jackie?”
“Me? You know me, Merry, I never repeat gossip.”
“You’re gossiping right now. To me.”
“I thought you should know, that’s all. Besides, it’s not gossip if you’re involved, Merry.”
“I am not involved, Jackie.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said. “It’s important for our store’s reputation, you know, that we continue to present ourselves as a family-friendly destination. Here, let me help you with that. I just love the sparkles on those balls, don’t you?” Jackie went behind the counter to ring up the customer’s purchases. I was left clutching my latte, having failed to come up with a timely response of sharp, cutting wit.
Chapter 14
The following morning, Mattie and I were standing on the sidewalk at three minutes to seven. Vicky was so punctual, she was often early. The curtains in Mrs. D’Angelo’s window had flicked when we passed, but she didn’t come out. I could only assume she’d had no updates on the case. And that suited me just fine.
At one minute to seven a white panel van with “Victoria’s Bake Shoppe” painted on the side screeched to a halt. I opened the back door and Mattie leapt inside, then I clambered in next to Vicky. “When you said you’d drive, I thought you meant we’d take your car. We’re hardly incognito in this.”
“We’re going incognito? You didn’t say that.” She threw the van into gear, checked over her shoulder, and eased into the light traffic.
“I didn’t know that I had to. Whenever anyone from Rudolph goes to Muddle Harbor they go in disguise.”
“People from Rudolph go to Muddle Harbor?”
“So I hear. Although it’s hard to know for sure. Seeing as how they go in disguise.”
“Are you afraid we’ll have our citizenship revoked? Maybe my parade trophy—sorry, parade trophies—will be confiscated.”
“We can say we’re on a goodwill mission.”
“As is our duty as conscientious citizens.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway, I guess. We’ve been seen at that café before.”
Mattie’s big head appeared between us. He grinned at us. “Are you allowed to have a dog in the back of your delivery van?” I asked.
“Probably not. Yet another reason to have me run out of town. Deliveries for the day are over. I’ll have Ryan hose the van down before loading it tomorrow.”
Muddle Harbor is ten miles to the east of Rudolph. The road is so rarely traveled, if the state didn’t maintain it trees would be growing up through cracks in the pavement. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Muddle Harbor and Rudolph had both been thriving Great Lakes port cities, bustling with commerce and industry, places of gracious homes, prosperous citize
ns, bright futures. By the middle of the twentieth century, the shipyards had closed and the industry had fled, leaving decaying postindustrial towns behind. Rudolph, largely under the guidance of my father, had taken advantage of the town’s name to refashion itself as America’s year-round Christmas destination and become a thriving tourist town. Muddle Harbor, not named (supposedly) for a red-nosed reindeer, continued to decay. The town had tried to imitate Rudolph’s success (the Easter Town disaster came to mind), but every effort had failed. Instead of celebrating Rudolph’s success and accepting the overflow business, Muddle Harbor had grown increasingly resentful toward its neighbor. We called them the Muddites. They called us Those Blasted Deer People.
“An amusement park isn’t such a bad idea,” Vicky said as we headed out of town and the winter woods closed around us. “It might encourage people who come to Rudolph for the Christmas festivities to spend more time in the area.”
“In the summertime anyway. Can’t have an amusement park year-round in this climate. From what Dad says, it seems to be nothing but an idea so far, and the people of Muddle Harbor have a habit of turning good ideas into bad.”
“Yeah, like the Chocolette.”
“Right. Although a teenage beauty pageant with an Easter theme was a bad idea from the start.”
“So, what’s our plan of attack?”
“We don’t have one. We’re going to enjoy a nice breakfast at the Muddle Harbor Café.”
“I feel my arteries clogging even as we speak.”
Vicky has never been known to turn down a fully loaded pizza or fail to tuck into a greasy hamburger with a side of fries, but something about the Muddle Harbor Café had got her back up the first time we went there, and she refused to admit that the plain, down-to-earth, all-American food they served was actually pretty good. “Maybe they’ll have expanded the menu since our last visit. And while we enjoy our breakfasts, we keep our ears open.”
Vicky slowed as the highway turned into Muddle Harbor’s Main Street. It was three days after Christmas, but the town had little of the holiday air found in Rudolph. Half the festive lights mounted on the lampposts were burned out, and a layer of ice covered patches of sidewalk in front of empty storefronts. Even the snow on the lawn at the town’s small library seemed dark and dirty, rather than white and fresh. The only cars on the street were parked in front of our destination: the Muddle Harbor Café. Blinking lights trimmed the windows and the “Open” sign was flashing. Vicky easily found a place to park.
“You have to wait,” I said to Mattie. “If you’re good I’ll bring you a piece of bacon.”
Mattie panted happily.
“Don’t promise him that,” Vicky said. “Bacon’s not good for him.”
“It’s not good for me, either, but I’m going to have some.” I decided not to think about Jackie’s comment yesterday.
“I brought some carrot sticks and a bag of nuts and raisins for the ride home,” Vicky said.
“You did not. Did you?”
“And a homemade dog biscuit for Mattie.” She clambered out of the van and we approached our destination.
The Muddle Harbor Café is decorated in 1950s-diner style, with a black-and-white check pattern on the walls and the floor, red-covered stools facing a long counter displaying covered pie and cake dishes, and booths lining the walls. At first glance, it seems cool and retro, but look closer and you can tell that the place simply hasn’t ever been updated. The peeling linoleum on the floor is curling around the edges, the wall tiles are chipped, the vinyl on the chairs and booths cracked. The photos on the walls, of smiling women in clunky bathing suits or men with excessively white teeth displaying soda bottles, weren’t modern art but advertising originals, yellowed and fading.
The bells over the door tinkled as we walked in. Everyone in the place stopped what they were doing to stare at us. It was a Monday morning, the start of a business week, and several booths and tables were occupied. An older couple sat across from each other in a booth, their newspapers held in front of them as though they were walls erected to prevent conversation. A couple of young mothers chatted over coffee while they bounced babies on laps or kept an eye on restless toddlers.
We were in luck, and several of the town’s most prominent citizens were gathered round the big table in the center of the room. The table was piled high with papers and binders, and several of the men had iPads open in front of them. Coffee cups were full, and used plates pushed to one side. I recognized Randy Baumgartner, the mayor; a real estate agent who was the brother of the café’s owner; a couple of town councilors. And two men I wasn’t expecting: Jim Morrow, husband of the mayor of Rudolph, and Wayne Fitzroy, disgraced businessman and instigator of the failed attempt to unseat my dad as Santa Claus.
“Hi,” I said.
“Surprised to see you here, Merry,” Jim said. “I’m sure some of you gentlemen know Merry Wilkinson. Noel’s daughter.”
I smiled and waved. The first time I’d met Jim, I’d been walking Mattie in the street where he and Sue-Anne lived. He’d asked me to go out with him.
He didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling.
Neither did Wayne Fitzroy, who slapped on a smile and said, “Happy New Year, Merry. As expected, your dad did a great job this year of playing Santa.”
“No thanks to you,” Vicky mumbled under her breath.
“What was that?” Wayne asked.
“Nothing,” Vicky replied cheerfully.
“Any daughter of Santa Claus,” Randy Baumgartner said, “is welcome in Muddle Harbor.”
“What’s that mean?” growled the heavyset man next to him. Unlike the others, who wore slacks or shirts or even jeans and T-shirts, he was in a suit. A very good suit, with a blue silk tie, a shirt so white it almost sparkled, and a pair of solid gold cuff links.
“Just a little neighborly humor between friends,” Randy said.
“Don’t let us interrupt your meeting.” Vicky grabbed my arm and dragged me over to the counter. “I told you this was a mistake,” she whispered to me. “You’ve been made.”
“You didn’t tell me it was a mistake,” I replied. “Coming here this morning was your idea.”
The scowling waitress poured coffee into the cups in front of us without even asking if we wanted coffee. “What can I getcha?”
Vicky pushed her cup to one side. “A decaf latte, half-foam, please. And a gluten-free muffin.”
The waitress eyed her.
“I’ll have two eggs,” I said quickly. “Sunny-side up. Bacon. Make that a double serving of bacon. White toast. Hash browns.”
The waitress wrote my order on her pad. Then she said, “And a side order of hay and a glass of muddy water for your friend.”
I laughed.
Vicky did not.
I glared at her.
“Oh, all right,” Vicky said. “I was just kidding. This coffee looks fine. I’ll have a toasted bagel. Do you have nonfat cream cheese?”
“Cheese without fat wouldn’t be worth eating, now, would it?” The waitress ripped the order off her pad and passed it through the window into the kitchen. She carried her coffeepot to the main table, which had gone exceptionally quiet since our arrival. The men were all watching us.
I swung around on my stool. “I’ve been sent by a . . . consortium of Rudolph businesspeople to find out how we can help you get the amusement park concept off the ground.”
Vicky gaped at me.
“We . . . some of the younger business owners in Rudolph, think that’s a great idea. We’re tired of the old fuddy-duddies and their outmoded ideas and antagonism toward the nice people of Muddle Harbor. We believe we can work together for the benefit of all. Right, Vicky?”
“What the—? Oh yeah, right. We think that.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” Wayne Fitzroy said.
I smiled at him.
“As I said, we younger businesspeople.”
A man laughed. “That puts you in your place, Wayne.”
“Does Sue-Anne know about this?” Jim asked, referring to his wife, the mayor.
I shrugged.
The waitress dropped an unbuttered toasted bagel in front of Vicky. “Here you go. With an extra helping of no-fat cream cheese. Yours,” she said to me, “will be right up, hon.”
“Most amusing.” Vicky reached for the metal tower containing the individual packets of jam and marmalade.
“Okay, suppose I buy that,” Mayor Baumgartner said. “Not sayin’ I do, mind, but suppose. What you offering?”
“Cooperation,” I said. “Maybe we can help with advertising. Businesses like mine have a customer list we use for letting people know about new products, special promotions, et cetera. We can help you get the word out.”
“You might not have noticed, sweetie,” the man in the good suit said, “but right now these people don’t have nothin’ for you to advertise.”
I decided not to point out the double negative. He didn’t seem like a man who liked to be corrected. “We’re thinking ahead. Tell me about the amusement park. Have you bought the land yet?”
A chair squeaked on the linoleum as Jim Morrow pushed himself to his feet. “Waste of time. The project’s as good as dead.” He stabbed a chubby finger onto the cover of one of the binders on the table. “Not one word of that’s going to come to pass. Not with that old drunk back in charge.”
“Do you mean Louis Vanderhaven?” I asked. Luanne had implied that Jeff’s father had a drinking problem and Jeff had taken over much of the company’s affairs because of it.
Jim didn’t answer me, but Wayne said, “You don’t know that, Jim.”
“I know it well enough. And you all do, too, although you won’t admit it. Not yet.” He turned to the other men at the table. “I’ve been trying to tell you. Randy needs to unload that patch of land and—”
“Not in front of our guest,” Wayne said.
“Your guest’s not here because he wants to do us any favors.”