by Vicki Delany
“I don’t know . . .”
“Well, I do,” her companion said. “Remember that tractor you bought him for Christmas last year?” She turned to Jackie. “Isaac opened the box, slid the tractor across the floor, and one of the wheels fell off. You get what you pay for, Mom, and isn’t your only grandson worth it?”
Sold!
Jackie gave me a wink as she carried the train set to the counter. The women continued browsing.
“Sorry I’m late,” I whispered to my assistant. “Rough night. I have to go out again. Can you manage for a while?”
“No problem.”
“I’ll bring you something back from Vicky’s.” I studied her face. Her eyes were clear and her skin dewy fresh. “Did you happen to catch the news this morning?”
“I never listen to the news. Much too depressing.”
“Do you have this ornament in blue?” one of the customers asked, and Jackie called, “I’ll have a latte with extra whipped cream,” over her shoulder as she went to help.
I never did understand how Jackie could have whipped cream on breakfast coffee, nor how she kept so thin despite consuming several cups of it a day.
The now-familiar silver BMW was parked in front of Victoria’s Bake Shoppe, between a cruiser and an unmarked van. I’d seen that van last night, disgorging men and women in white suits carrying evidence boxes. I climbed the steps and hammered on the door. Through the frosted glass I could see people moving about inside.
The door opened a crack. “Closed,” said a uniformed officer.
“Vicky!” I called.
My best friend’s pretty heart-shaped face topped by a shock of purple hair peeked around the cop’s broad back. “This is my friend. Can she come in, please?”
“Let her in,” a woman’s voice called. The big cop stepped back.
“Good morning, Ms. Wilkinson.” Detective Simmonds looked as fresh and bright eyed as Jackie had, but she was wearing the same jacket and jeans as last night. “What brings you here?”
“Vicky’s my friend. I popped in to say hi.” The bakery was full of its usual smells of warm pastries, bread hot from the oven, sugar, and spices, but this morning a thin layer of something else lay over it all: chemicals, harsh and unwelcome.
I glanced at the top shelf. The light that usually illuminated the golden Rudolph parade trophy was switched off, and the statue itself was wrapped in gloom.
“I heard that Nigel Pearce died,” I said.
Simmonds nodded. “Yeah. They couldn’t bring him back.”
“How . . .” I began.
“Autopsy’s this afternoon,” Simmonds said. “Until then, we are not going to speculate. And until then, we’re finished here. You can have your bakery back, Ms. Casey.”
“I can open?”
“For now. Let’s go, people.”
They began trooping out. Simmonds was last. “Please don’t leave town, Ms. Casey. Until I tell you otherwise.”
“This is the busiest time of year. I’m hardly going to . . .”
I placed a hand on my friend’s arm. “She won’t.”
“Good,” Simmonds said. She gave us both a long, piercing look before following her colleagues.
Vicky dropped into a chair.
“Are you going to open the bakery?” I asked.
Purple hair flew as she shook her head. Her sleeves were rolled up and the matching dragon tattoos on her forearms moved as she rubbed at her face. “No point. The breakfast rush is over, and I can’t get ready in time for Sunday brunch. I called the staff and told them not to come in. The cops have eaten most of what I’d already baked, and I haven’t started on anything else.” Her blue eyes studied me. “Do they think I poisoned Nigel Pearce?”
“I don’t know what they’re thinking. Simmonds told you that you could open, didn’t she? That means they didn’t find anything . . . uh . . . incriminating.”
We both started at a knock on the door. “Tell them to go away,” Vicky said.
Alan Anderson’s handsome face was peering through the window. I hurried to the door. “Bakery won’t be opening today.”
“Just checking if you guys are okay.”
“We’re okay. Come on in.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, I felt myself grinning at him. He grinned back.
“Would you like a cinnamon bun, Alan?” Vicky asked. “I think the cops left one or two.”
“Forget the cinnamon buns,” I said. “Did you hear?”
“Bun would be nice, thanks. About Pearce? Everyone’s talking about it.”
“What are they saying?”
“Town council had an emergency meeting this morning. Soon as they broke up, word started going around that Pearce got drunk and went for a walk in the park, where he fell asleep and froze to death.”
“Do you believe that?” I asked.
“No. But that story doesn’t make anyone in Rudolph look responsible.”
“Anyone like me,” Vicky said.
“Anyone,” Alan said firmly. “The police aren’t saying, and until they do there’s no point in speculating.”
“But people will.”
“Speculate? Sure they will. Already are. The mayor and the councilors just gave them a hint of what to speculate about.”
“Is anyone wondering why the cops were here?” I asked. “At the bakery, I mean.”
“Some are. They went through Pearce’s room at the Yuletide Inn and were asking where he’d eaten earlier.”
Vicky groaned. “Here. Not only my baking at the party, but he had lunch here.”
Alan put a hand on Vicky’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about things that haven’t happened yet. Things that might never happen. The autopsy’ll show he had a bad heart or something. I didn’t think he looked like a well man. Right, Merry?”
“Right,” I said cheerfully. “He was definitely too thin and kinda pasty white.”
“Come to think of it,” Vicky said, “he only had a couple of sips of soup and never finished his sandwich.”
“As we suspected. He was sick already.” Alan gave me a smile. I grinned back, pleased at our logic.
Vicky reached up and patted his hand. “Thanks, guys.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Now get out of here. You must have work to do. I know I do. This is a chance for me to get ahead of myself and do some prep for tomorrow. It’ll be nice to have the kitchen to myself, like when I first started the business. I might even be able to get home early for once and enjoy a glass of wine and a good book. If you’re up to it, Merry, pop on over when you close the shop. Good thing today’s Sunday. Some of the tourists won’t think anything of us not being open.”
Alan and I headed for the door. “Hold up!” Vicky called. She ran to the counter and stuffed blueberry muffins and cinnamon buns into small white paper bags. The bags showed the Victoria’s Bake Shoppe logo of two mischievous gingerbread children peeking around a stylized Christmas tree. “These are no good a day old.” The smile she gave us was genuine. Vicky never stayed down for long. I gave her a spontaneous hug. We left her whistling to herself and reaching for a long apron.
“Thanks for that,” I said to Alan as we stood on the steps, gripping our bags of cinnamon and sugary goodness. “You knew exactly what to say to her.”
“I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean. People die all the time, unfortunately, no need for the town to get into a panic.”
I decided not to mention the puddle of vomit next to Nigel. Hopefully the autopsy would reveal that he’d died of natural causes and that would be the end of that.
We began to walk toward Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. The street was full of cars and pedestrians. Shoppers browsed the gaily decorated windows and strolled in and out of shops. Most of them came out, I was pleased to see, carrying shopping bags. I saw more than a few with the logo of Mrs. Claus’s Treas
ures. The air was cold but the sun was warm and people had untied scarves, discarded gloves, and thrown open coats.
“Jackie told me where I could find you,” Alan said.
Outside The Elves’ Lunch Box a waiter was setting up a sandwich board advertising the day’s specials. Fish tacos might not be traditional North Pole fare, but they did sound pretty good. “You were at the shop?”
“I dropped off a box of those necklaces you ordered.” As well as toys, Alan crafted bowls, vases, and jewelry out of wood. I particularly loved his necklaces, as did my customers. He strung twelve to twenty-four highly polished wooden disks on a chain, each piece of wood getting progressively larger as the chain descended.
“Great. They’ve been very popular and we’re almost sold out. Is there a problem? You could have left them with Jackie. You know I pay on time.”
“I know. I guess . . . well, I . . .”
I yelped as a tiny ball of indignation leapt out of Rudolph’s Gift Nook. “Merry Wilkinson, I should have known you’d have something to do with this.” Betty Thatcher glared at me.
She then glared at Alan. “Shouldn’t you be in your workshop, young man? Crafting exclusive handmade custom decorations?”
If Betty didn’t like me for selling artisan things, she liked Alan even less for making them. He never seemed to mind. “Thanks for reminding me, Mrs. Thatcher, ma’am. Only twenty-three shopping days until Christmas. That’s a pretty sweater. It sure captures the mood of the season.”
“Why, thank you,” she said, softening a fraction. She wore a red fleece sweatshirt (only $29.99!) decorated with a picture of Rudolph (the deer, not the town), his flashing nose powered by a battery concealed on Betty’s person.
“Talk to you later, Merry,” Alan said. He walked away in his slow, lazy fashion.
He’d been about to say something to me when we’d been so rudely interrupted.
I glared at Betty, and decided to make my escape as well. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fast enough. She plucked at my arm. If a pack of well-dressed and obviously highly competitive shoppers hadn’t passed us at that very moment, I might have attempted to shake her off. But her grip would have made a professional wrestler proud, and I didn’t want to be observed knocking an apparently (appearances can be deceiving) frail woman to the ground.
“What’s this I hear about that nice Mr. Pearce being found dead in the park?” Betty demanded.
“So they say.”
“They also say you found him. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t have to explain that. But I will. I was walking my dog. My dog found him.”
Her lip curled up. “That comes as no surprise to me. I’ve always said they’re filthy, disgusting beasts, dogs. Attracted by no end of rubbish.”
Whether said rubbish was intended to mean a dead body or me, I didn’t know.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Betty went on, “that you were spending a lot of time with Mr. Pearce at the reception last night, Merry.”
“I . . .”
“Almost smothering him with your demands for attention, it seemed to me. The poor man didn’t get much of a chance to talk to anyone else. Not between you and that mother of yours.” She gave me a supercilious smirk, waiting for me to respond.
“Have it your way, Betty,” I said, walking away.
“I intend to tell the police that, when they come calling,” she shouted after me.
Inside Mrs. Claus’s Treasures a line was forming at the counter. Jackie rang up sales and handled money in her usual efficient fashion, but it didn’t take more than a quick glance for me to know that she’d heard the news. I rushed to discard my outerwear and replace her at the cash register.
“Take a break,” I whispered to her.
“Is it true what Mrs. Thatcher’s saying?” she whispered back. “About Nigel?”
“I’m afraid so. Although she’s adding a healthy dose of malice to a story that’s sad enough as it is.”
“Excuse me, but do you have any more of those glass vases? I bought one for myself yesterday, but I’ve decided they’d make lovely gifts.”
“We might be all out, but I can check in the back,” Jackie said. The door opened and more shoppers streamed in.
“I’ll be okay until Crystal gets here,” Jackie said to me, referring to my other assistant, scheduled to come in at noon.
We were so busy for the rest of the day that I scarcely had a moment to think about Nigel Pearce. Or to wonder what Alan had been about to say to me when Betty Thatcher had pounced. I overheard a few people talking about Nigel, but they seemed to think he’d either passed out drunk and then froze, or had suffered a heart attack. Crystal arrived, and Jackie went for her lunch break. She came back with red eyes, smeared mascara, and a swollen nose. She hadn’t known Nigel well enough to be mourning him, but she was an emotional person. Not to mention that she would have realized that she wouldn’t have her picture in World Journey magazine after all.
It was a long, hectic, trying, but very profitable day. Jackie, Crystal, and I were constantly on the hop as eager shoppers browsed and bought. Whenever my face began to ache from all the smiling I was doing, I just had to hear the merry sound of the cash register ringing up another sale to feel better. A light snow began to fall around four o’clock as the lights came on, laying a fresh layer of pure Christmas magic over Jingle Bell Lane.
I’d placed Alan’s wooden train sets on a prominent table, and they were soon snapped up. When I got enough of a break to check the window, most of the jewelry on display had been sold. “Please tell me you have more merchandise,” I said to Crystal. “I never thought it would be so popular.”
With a grin, she tucked a strand of silky black hair behind her ear. “I might be able to find some. I’ll have Mom bring it over.”
“Thanks. You’re a gem.” I meant that literally. Crystal was an incredibly talented small-metal artist and, although she was a senior in high school, she supplied many of the jewelry pieces I sold at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. She’d been accepted at the prestigious School of Visual Arts in New York for next fall, and I’d miss her terribly. As would my mom. Along with her other talents, Crystal had a beautiful singing voice and was Mom’s star pupil. She was busy enough with her music, her classes, and her jewelry workshop, but she worked in Mrs. Claus’s Treasures during the busiest times to make money to help with college.
She slipped into the back room to place the call to her mom for more stock, and I went to politely, yet firmly, remove a handblown glass ornament from the clumsy fingers of a five-year-old.
“Do you like the pretty thing, sweetie?” the boy’s mother gushed. “It will look wonderful on the children’s tree. We’ll take the box, miss.”
“You spoil that boy,” an older man said to her. “In my day we made ornaments out of popcorn, tinsel, and seed packets.” I couldn’t help but notice that his arms were full of stuffed toys.
“And,” the woman said to me, “they walked twenty miles to school. Uphill. Both ways.”
As they left the shop, laden with parcels, the boy began demanding, in a piercing voice, ice cream.
Crystal came out of the back room. “Mom’ll bring some things around later. She said that newspaper guy from England died last night. That’s awful. I was talking to him at the reception. What do you think happened, Merry?”
Before I could answer, Jackie caught wind of our conversation and hurried over. “It’s such a shock. He was going to photograph me today. I can’t believe it. My big break gone. I mean . . . poor man.”
“He didn’t look at all healthy,” I said, repeating Alan’s suggested line. “Thin and pale.”
“English people all look like that,” said Jackie, who had never been out of New York State.
“Colin Firth doesn’t,” Crystal pointed out.
“Who?” said Jackie.
&n
bsp; “We do have customers,” I reminded my staff.
At one minute to six, I was flipping the sign on the door to “Closed” when it almost hit me in the face. Kyle Lambert strode in, head and shoulders flaked with snow. He was a big guy who hadn’t quite learned to control his arms and legs. Thinking of the proverbial bull in the china shop, I snatched up two wineglasses painted with delicate lines to represent red and green colored lights and clutched them to my chest.
“Ready, babe?” he said to Jackie.
“I’ll be just a minute.” A few customers lingered, and Jackie was on the till.
He turned to me with a smile. “Hope your boss lady pays overtime.”
I held open the door. “Jackie will be out when she’s finished.”
“I’ll wait,” he said.
I wasn’t about to make a scene, so I flipped the lock without another word.
Kyle wandered through the shop, looking not at all impressed by my display of merchandise. I let the last of the customers out. Crystal went to get her bag. Kyle spent a lot of time studying the jewelry display. He picked up a pair of earrings, delicate silver filigrees in the shape of snowmen. He held them up. “Do you like these, babe?”
“Sure do,” Jackie said. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“I’ll take them. You deserve something special.”
She preened.
Then he caught sight of the price tag. “Forty bucks!” His face fell.
“They’re handmade. Merry will ring them up while I powder my nose.” Jackie gave Kyle a hearty kiss on the lips and skipped off to the back.
“You don’t have to buy them if they’re too much,” I said to him.
“I can afford it,” he said, almost choking on the words.
“You seem in a cheerful mood today, Kyle.”