Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen

by Vicki Delany

  “I can’t! You deserve the credit.”

  “I’ll get the credit, you can be sure of that. But you’re dressed for the part, Mrs. Claus. Come on, let’s go.”

  Her helpers stopped working to watch. The door was held open for me, and I proudly carried the tray of cookies into the room.

  “What have we got here?” Dad boomed. “Ho, ho, ho!”

  Mom launched into the “champagne” song from Die Fledermaus.

  “For our distinguished guest,” Vicky said as everyone gathered around. Most of the tourists had left after checking their watches and muttering about reservations or getting children to bed. It was now time for the town to congratulate itself on a job well done, to pat itself on the back, and to relax . . . for about five minutes. Then we headed back to work to get ready for another busy day that was Christmas Town in December. The only outsiders remaining were Nigel Pearce and the people from Muddle Harbor. (The Muddites, we called them. They called us those blasted deer people.) Nigel snapped a photo of the gingerbread cookie display. Then he took another shot of a beaming Vicky beside the tray. Vicky indicated that she wanted me in the picture, but Nigel called for Jackie. Giggling and protesting that she had nothing to do with it, all the while shoving people aside, she snatched up a Santa and pretended to take a big bite. Her boyfriend, Kyle, hadn’t dropped his scowl all evening. He clearly wasn’t about to start now.

  Russ, who regularly did triple duty as photographer and the paper’s lead reporter as well as editor in chief, snapped a picture of me with an expression on my face that would frighten small children.

  “For our English visitor,” Vicky said once the cameras had stopped clicking. “I created a cookie in honor of his countryman who popularized many of the Christmas traditions we enjoy today.” She smiled at Nigel and made a sweeping gesture toward the treats.

  We all applauded and Nigel Pearce, looking quite pleased with himself, stepped forward. He picked up the elaborate Dickens cookie and bit the head off in one big bite. We applauded again.

  The mayor cleared his throat prior to making a speech, but he was pushed aside by the rush on the food.

  Once the tray had been vacuumed clean, everyone drifted off into the night. Mom declared that she was absolutely exhausted, and Dad gave her a fond smile. The Muddites went away mumbling, although I noticed that their mayor managed to snatch a couple of extra cookies and stuff them into his pocket. Nigel Pearce drew Jackie to one side and, peering down the front of her sweater all the while, whispered in her ear. Kyle had gone to get her coat. Russ snapped one last shot of me at the moment I took a bite of the cookie I’d been able to snatch out from under the grasping hands of Sue-Anne. She gave me a look that would curdle Santa’s milk before forcing her face into a smile and turning to Russ.

  “Why don’t you walk me to my car, Russell, sweetie? It’s getting so slippery out there, and these boots aren’t suitable for ice. I need a man’s strong arm.”

  Vicky wiggled her eyebrows at me, and I stifled a laugh. The sidewalks had been scraped so thoroughly they’d probably lost a quarter inch of pavement, and enough salt and sand had been laid in the parking lot to equip a California beach. The last thing the town of Rudolph wanted was for one of those tourists to slip and break a leg.

  But Russ was young and attractive and exceedingly charming, and Sue-Anne’s husband was rarely seen around town. Probably more to the point, however, Russ represented the town’s newspaper.

  Vicky sent her helpers home, and I gave her a hand with the last of the cleaning.

  “The whole day went well,” she said, packing dishes into the plastic tubs she used for transporting supplies.

  “Other than me being disqualified from the parade, you mean?”

  A smile touched the corner of her mouth. “Other than that. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

  We were the last people to leave the community center. Vicky switched off the lights and I made sure the door had locked behind us.

  “You’re not being fair!”

  “Look, Jackie, I . . .”

  The voices broke off. Jackie and Kyle were standing against the wall by the back door, in deep shadows where the lights from the parking lot didn’t reach. He had his hand on her arm, and his face was set into deep lines beneath narrowed black eyes. Jackie shook him off. “Night, Merry,” she called.

  Kyle stepped away from her. Embarrassed, he dug grooves in the snow with the toe of his boot.

  “Are you okay there?” I asked, cradling one of Vicky’s plastic tubs.

  “We’re fine. Kyle doesn’t seem to understand about taking opportunities and making a grab for the brass ring.” Jackie walked into the light. Kyle wasn’t the brightest star on the Rudolph Christmas tree, but I’d always thought he was a nice guy. Too nice, maybe, for Jackie. Despite her earlier complaint that he’d dump her if he saw her elf getup, we both knew that wouldn’t happen. Jackie went through boyfriends at a rate that was beyond my ability to keep track. And when she tired of them, she liked to be the one who did the dumping.

  “I understand,” he said, “about dirty old men trying to look important.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t he sweet when he’s jealous, Merry? Take me home, Kyle. I’m tired.” She walked away, head high. Kyle threw me a look and then ran after her.

  Vicky and I left them to sort out their problems.

  At home, Mattie greeted me with his usual boundless enthusiasm. After I’d wiped away enough drool to fill a horse trough, I told him I’d be back in a minute and ran into my bedroom to change. I needed a bath, a long hot soak with lavender bubbles, to force some life back into my legs and feet, but Mattie needed a walk after spending a boring day alone in his crate. Off came the damp tights and the Mrs. Claus outfit and on went a pair of beloved old jeans and a tattered, but warm, sweater. I ran my hands through my own black curls, happy to have the cap off. Downstairs, Mattie danced around my feet in excitement, but I eventually managed to get the squiggling beast out of the way long enough to pull on my heavy winter boots and down-filled coat, wrap a long scarf around my neck, and pull a highly unattractive but functional hat with earflaps onto my head.

  Last of all, I snapped the leash onto Mattie’s collar and we set off. I opened the gate, stepped onto the path, and my arm was almost detached from the socket. I might have enjoyed a pleasant stroll but walking Mattie was more of a mad gallop, abruptly interrupted by bone-shaking halts, as the dog found something interesting to sniff at and then charged off in search of the next fascinating object. This was a neighborhood of stately Victorian mansions, built in Rudolph’s heyday when it had been one of the most significant ports on the Great Lakes. Some homes were now in a state of gentle decay, many had been broken into apartments, but almost all of the houses were beautifully decorated. Grinches don’t live in Rudolph for long. Majestic trees glittered in front windows, lights were draped across porch frames and pillars or wound between tree branches. The bandstand was trimmed in hundreds of tiny white lights, and a white spotlight shone on the town’s official Christmas tree. Thick clouds continued to spill snow, and no light came from moon or stars to guide my way. The lake was a solid black void in the distance.

  As we reached the park, Mattie veered off to the right, going deeper into the darkness, pulling so sharply on the leash, I staggered. My feet slid out from under me on a patch of hidden ice. My hands flew out as I tried to keep upright, releasing the leash. The dog bounded away. I fell, hard, into the deep, soft snow. For a moment I lay where I’d fallen, facedown, head buzzing. I blinked, shook my head, and struggled to roll over. I did a quick mental check. I wiggled my toes and my fingers. Everything seemed to be in place and working. My right wrist had broken my fall. It hurt like the blazes, but I could still move it, so I didn’t think anything was broken.

  With a curse and a groan, slipping and sliding on the hidden ice, I pushed myself to my knees and then st
aggered to my feet. I blew snow off my face and wiped down my arms. I couldn’t see Mattie but I could hear him barking in the dark, toward the rocky shore of the lake.

  “Mattie! Matterhorn! Get over here!”

  No reply. I couldn’t see anything, but I stumbled through the deep snow, following the sound of barking. I want to be a responsible dog owner, so I always carry a flashlight and a pocketful of plastic bags on our nightly excursions. I pulled the flashlight out of my pocket and switched it on. I played the light over the expanse, seeing nothing but snow. A few more steps and there he was: a swiftly moving brown and while tail and furry butt.

  “Mattie,” I said, sounding very stern. “Come here, right now!”

  He turned his head and looked at me. The light caught his brown eyes. But he didn’t come at my command and turned back to whatever had grabbed his attention. It appeared to be a black plastic garbage bag.

  My blood boiled. Some irresponsible citizen had chucked their garbage into the park.

  The dog stopped barking and settled into a low whine. He stood over the bag, looking back at me. Urging me to come closer.

  I shined the flashlight on the bag.

  Something reflected back at me.

  This was no garbage bag. It was person. A man.

  I ran forward and dropped to my knees in the snow. Ignoring the pain in my wrist, I reached for the man. I touched his shoulder, intending to give him a good shake. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink and had foolishly lain down in the snow for a short nap, or had tripped and been knocked unconscious.

  He was so very cold. I touched his neck, and nothing moved beneath my shaking fingers.

  I realized that I knew him.

  Nigel Pearce. The World Journey magazine reporter.

  Chapter 4

  Mattie buried his head into my side with a slow, plaintive whine. I rubbed my hands through his soft fur and closed my eyes, taking deep breaths and sparing a thought for poor Nigel.

  My eyes flew open. Nigel was cold, icy cold, but I’d read somewhere that people who appeared to be frozen to death had been brought back to life when warmed up. I struggled to my feet and shrugged off my winter coat. I pushed the emergency call button on my iPhone with one hand while with the other I draped my coat over the man lying at my feet.

  “I’m in the Rudolph town park,” I said when the efficient voice of the emergency operator answered. “A man . . . I found a man . . . I think he’s dead. Almost dead. He’s very cold.”

  “What is your name, please?”

  “Merry Wilkinson. He’s lying in the snow. Not breathing. Send help.”

  “Ambulance and police are on their way,” she said. “Stay on the line, Merry.”

  “Okay. Is this Alison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Are you okay, Merry?”

  “I’m okay. It’s dark here, but I have my flashlight on so they’ll be able to find me.”

  “Stay there, then. Do you detect any vital signs?”

  I swallowed and said, “No.”

  “How was the parade? I was sorry to miss it, but you know how busy we get parade weekend, so I pulled an extra shift.” Alison Grimes was a graduate of my mom’s vocal school. I knew she was just making polite conversation to keep me calm until help arrived, and I chatted back, grateful for her relaxed voice and easy manner.

  As we talked, Mattie uncoiled himself from me and went to take another look at Nigel. I grabbed his collar and pulled him away. “I’d better secure my dog,” I said to Alison. “Hold on.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  I grabbed Mattie’s leash and led him to a tree about twenty feet away to tie him up. I figured that the EMTs and the cops wouldn’t want to play with a giant puppy, delighted as he would be at the opportunity to make new friends.

  The snow around Nigel had been churned up, first by Mattie’s big paws and then by me. The cops probably wouldn’t be happy about that but there was nothing I could do about it now. I tried to remember if I’d seen any tracks as I approached, but I couldn’t. I had not been looking for clues.

  I shined my flashlight across the ground around Nigel. The long lens of his Nikon was partially under his body. I wondered if I should lift it out of the snow. Surely, a valuable piece of equipment like that shouldn’t be getting wet. I left it where it lay. Expensive or not, the cops would not be happy if I disturbed the scene any more than I already had.

  The light picked up something I hadn’t seen before: a circle of melting snow about two feet away from Nigel. A mass of brown lumpy liquid was sinking into the snow, warm enough to melt it. I caught a whiff of the scent, and my stomach lurched. Nigel had been violently ill.

  At first, I thought he must have been awfully drunk to throw up like that and then simply lie down in the snow and take a nap. But alcohol hadn’t been served at the party, and if Nigel had been dipping into a private stash, he hadn’t appeared to be at all inebriated. Had he started to drink when he left the party? I’d last seen him less than an hour ago. Surely no one could get that drunk that fast?

  Mattie’s sharp ears caught the sound before I did and he began to bark. Sirens, coming toward us, red, blue, and white lights breaking the blackness of the winter night. A voice shouted, and I waved my flashlight in the air, calling, “We’re over here!” Mattie strained at the leash, his front paws clawing at nothing but cold air.

  I only had a moment to think that perhaps I should have tied him to a bigger tree before a powerful light shone in my face.

  “It’s you,” said the high-pitched voice of Officer Candy Campbell. “I should have known.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I lifted my hand, trying to shield my face. I peeked out from between my fingers. Two paramedics had followed Candy. They crouched on either side of Nigel, blocking my view, and spoke in low, efficient voices as they examined the still figure.

  “Don’t move him,” Candy said. The light shifted and I could see again. The medics were preparing to load Nigel onto a backboard they’d brought with them. No stretcher would be able to get through the deep snow.

  “He’s gotta get to the hospital, stat,” one of the medics said. He shouted a stream of initials and numbers into his radio.

  “He’s dead. VSA,” Candy said. “The detectives will want to examine him in situ.” VSA, I knew, meant “vital signs absent.”

  “They ain’t dead until they’re warm and dead,” the medic replied. “Don’t they teach you that in police college?”

  “I don’t think . . .” Candy began.

  “I don’t much care what you think.” The medic was an older guy, well into his fifties. I suspected he’d seen and done it all. He probably chewed up small-town cops and spat them out before breakfast. “Let’s go. If we get him to the hospital fast enough, the docs might be able to bring him back. Hey! You over there.” He shouted and waved toward a group of firefighters trudging through the snow to see if they could help. “We need a lift here.”

  Quickly and efficiently, the two medics rolled Nigel, still draped in my coat, onto the board, and the firefighters lifted it.

  While Candy spluttered, Mattie barked, and I watched, they took the reporter from World Journey magazine away.

  “What do you know about this?” Candy turned to me.

  “Me? Absolutely nothing. I was out for a walk with the dog before turning in. We found him.” I pointed toward the body-sized indentation in the snow. “There. Like that.”

  “Why’s he wearing your coat, Merry?”

  “Because I hoped to warm him up.”

  She placed her hands on her laden equipment belt and eyed me suspiciously. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Of course I expect you to believe that. Because it’s the truth.”

  She swung her flashlight onto the patch of snow melting in the wa
rmth of poor Nigel Pearce’s last meal. “Is that yours?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Did you kill him, Merry, and then, shocked at what you did, were you sick?”

  “Hey!” I said.

  I might have gone on to say something I would have regretted, but we were interrupted by the arrival of another uniformed officer, followed by a woman casually dressed in jeans and a brown leather jacket.

  On the street, a line of official vehicles was forming as colorful lights shone on the snow. Loud voices broke the silence, and more people were trudging across the park toward us.

  “Are you the person who phoned this in?” the leather-jacketed woman asked me.

  “Yes. I’m Merry Wilkinson.”

  She was in her forties, attractive with wide green eyes and curly red hair, long legs, and the hint of a trim figure under her winter clothes. “I’m Detective Simmonds. Tell me what happened.”

  “I suspect . . .” Candy began.

  “Thank you, Officer,” Simmonds said. “I’ll be taking your statement shortly. In the meantime, some crowd control might be in order.”

  “But I’d rather . . .”

  “Such as that gentleman approaching,” the detective said.

  Russ Durham was picking his way through the snow. He lifted his camera and began snapping. I made a movement to pull my hood over my face and remembered I wasn’t wearing a coat. The last thing I needed was my picture in the local paper, as a person of interest in a police investigation. Good thing I wasn’t in my Mrs. Claus costume. That would do the reputation of Rudolph no favors.

  Candy threw me a poisonous glance, but went to do as she’d been ordered. She turned the full force of her official indignation onto Russ. I figured he could handle it.

  “Where’s your coat?” the detective asked.

  “I put it over . . . over Nigel. It went with him in the ambulance.”

  “You’re freezing.” Only when she said the word did I realize that I was. I’d discarded one of my gloves fumbling for my phone. I wrapped my arms around myself to try to control the shivering.