by Vicki Delany
No Santa at Midnight Madness?
Unthinkable!
If Mom had gone with him, then there would have been no carolers, either. Rudolph’s much-vaunted Midnight Madness celebration would have been nothing more than another small-town shopping night.
We’d all assumed the killer knew the Charles Dickens cookie was made for Nigel Pearce. But what if he (or she) hadn’t known that? What if the killer didn’t understand the Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol reference? What if they thought the beautiful, obviously very special, cookie was for Santa?
And, having failed to kill Santa, or at the least make him ill, had they lost their nerve and tried softer or more easily available targets?
Was Santa Claus still their focus?
I glanced at my watch. It was eight thirty. Mom and Dad would still be home. Santa was off duty today, and they were going to Rochester later, meeting friends at the theater for a matinee production of The Nutcracker and then going out to dinner.
They’d be safely out of town all day. I’d give this all a lot more thought and call Dad tomorrow morning.
My dad would know what to do.
* * *
At midday I took advantage of a lull in customer traffic to oh-so-casually ask Jackie what she’d done the previous evening. She’d left work at seven, and I wanted to know if she’d been with Kyle at the time the fire started in my garbage.
She peered at me through narrowed eyes. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just being friendly.”
She still looked suspicious, and I decided I needed to work on my friendly, concerned–employer role. Jackie glanced at Crystal. Crystal shrugged. “I had dinner at my mom’s. Exciting, eh?”
“Did Kyle go with you?”
“No. It was our regular one-Saturday-a-month dinner with Uncle Jerry and Aunt Beatrice and their horrid kids. Let’s just say that Uncle Jerry and Kyle don’t get on too well.” She sniffed. “Uncle Jerry was a recruiting sergeant in the Marines. He thinks Kyle should have a regular job, preferably a bout of semper fi to sort him out. Uncle Jerry doesn’t understand that Kyle is artistic. A job would destroy all that artistic talent.”
It was news to me that Kyle was an artist.
“What does he do?” Crystal asked. “I’ve never seen any of Kyle’s art around town.”
Jackie gave her a look. “He’s experimenting with different modes of expression, trying to find an exact fit.”
Crystal snorted. I refrained from doing the same.
Jackie ignored her and spoke to me. “You’d think Uncle Jerry would concentrate on worrying about his own layabout of a son. My cousin Gerald will be in the papers someday, mark my words, having gone on a crime spree. They’re hoping no one will notice Cousin Amanda has put on a lot of weight in the last couple of months. All of it around her middle and right where she didn’t need it: her boobs. But, oh no, good old Uncle Jerry’s too busy pointing out everyone else’s faults to look under his nose. He could start by noticing that no one in the family really believes that story about how he . . .”
“We all have difficult families to deal with,” Crystal interrupted.
Jackie glared at her. “Says Miss Perfect.”
“I didn’t want to take violin lessons, you know,” Crystal retorted. “I hate the violin. But my mother said I had to have a well-rounded musical education, and voice isn’t enough.”
“Well, my mom . . .”
I knew I had some reason for asking Jackie what she’d done last night, but by now I’d forgotten what that might have been.
“I was so annoyed at being lectured by Uncle Jerry about what’s the matter with young people these days, all while Gerald was wondering how much cash he could take from his dad’s wallet without being noticed and Amanda stuffed her face with the dinner rolls, I went straight to my apartment after dinner. Poor Kyle has enough to deal with, after his accident, that he doesn’t need to hear me complaining.” She sniffed. “He went out with a couple of his buddies, anyway.”
“Isn’t Kyle supposed to be recuperating?” Crystal said.
“A night with his friends would have done him some good,” Jackie said, although her tone of voice indicated that she didn’t believe it.
The chimes over the door tinkled, and the girls cut off their conversation. It didn’t matter: I’d learned what I wanted to know. Kyle’s whereabouts last night were unaccounted for. I hadn’t entirely forgotten that of everyone in Rudolph, Kyle had the strongest reason to want to get rid of Nigel Pearce. Simmonds had told me that GHB was a street drug. I suppose anyone, even me, could buy street drugs if they wanted to, and probably in Rudolph, too. But of all the people I was beginning to think of as suspects, Kyle was the most likely to know his way around that world.
It was possible that he’d caused the fire in the hot dog cart himself and then came around in the night to do the same to my garbage. It would be worth asking Simmonds, on the sly, if Kyle had ever been suspected of arson. I’d never thought Kyle was particularly bright: maybe he liked watching the cops run about trying to solve the problem he’d given them, and decided to do it again. Although there was absolutely no reason I could think of for Kyle to want to get my dad out of town. That had not been a police matter. All these incidents were so disparate; I was beginning to wonder if they were related at all.
Rudolph was a quiet, peaceful place. Aside from our Christmas obsession, we were a perfectly normal little town in Upstate New York. It seemed unlikely that all the crazies (murderous and otherwise) would come out of the woodwork at the same time.
It was time, I decided, that someone asked Kyle directly if he was up to something.
I told Jackie and Crystal I was off to get some lunch. Did they want me to bring anything back from Vicky’s? My treat.
Jackie gave me another one of her suspicious looks.
“You’ve both been working so hard,” I said. “I’d like to show my appreciation.”
Jackie might have muttered something along the lines of “then give us a raise,” before asking for soup and a salad.
“Thanks, Merry. That’s so nice of you,” Crystal said. “I’d like a sandwich. Anything without meat will be fine.”
“As long as I’m at the bakery anyway,” I said, “why don’t I pick up something for Kyle? I can drop it off at his place.”
“Why would you do that?” Jackie said.
“Because he’s been injured. My good deed of the week.” I smiled at her. “Where does he live, anyway?”
She gave me an address on Elm Street. “Basement apartment. Ring the bell for 2B.”
The bakery was busy and I didn’t have a chance to say hi to Vicky. Which was just as well, as I didn’t want her knowing what I was up to. She would insist on coming, and then the whole thing would turn into high drama. Of course, I didn’t have to tell her, but somehow I always blurted things out to Vicky whether I wanted to or not.
I chose a roast beef on rye for Kyle, thinking he’d like something manly. Then I threw in an order of gingerbread cookies. Maybe that would jog his memory about the fatal post-parade reception.
Elm Street is not the best part of town. Most of the houses are old, many are falling into disrepair. But even here the Christmas spirit is strong, and I noticed trees and eaves trimmed with lights, and wreaths hanging on many doors. Kyle’s building was broken into apartments, judging by the row of buzzers by the front entrance. I pressed 2B and waited.
“What?” said a tinny voice.
“Hi, Kyle. It’s Merry Wilkinson. I’ve brought you some lunch.”
“Why?”
“I thought you’d like something fresh.”
“Leave it on the step.”
I hadn’t considered that. “I wouldn’t want it to get stolen.” Suppose he wasn’t dressed? Suppose he was entertaining a woman other than Jackie? Suddenly this didn�
�t seem like such a good idea.
The buzzer sounded, and I pushed my doubts aside and opened the door.
The hall was full of the scent of old grease, stale tobacco smoke, and Lysol. The single bulb above the entrance was dim and little light came in through the only window. I found the stairwell and carefully picked my way down into the gloom. There were two doors. 1B and 2B. I knocked, and Kyle grunted, “It’s open.”
I’d been expecting a filthy dump, but the apartment was moderately tidy. The furniture had been fashionable in the ’70s but it looked clean. Kyle was relaxing in a La-Z-Boy, feet up, bottle of beer and full ashtray on a side table. Fortunately, he was dressed. A hockey game was playing on the giant flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. I glanced quickly around. Maybe he was an artist after all. A stack of canvases were piled against one wall, paint and brushes were laid out on a table, and an easel was set up by the high window. I sniffed, trying to be unobtrusive, but couldn’t detect the odors of paint or cleaning supplies.
Did artists get artist’s block?
Kyle dragged his attention away from the TV, dropped his legs, and straightened the chair. “Thanks, Merry.”
I carried the bakery bag into the kitchen and put it on the table. Dishes were piled in the sink, but they didn’t look as though they’d been there more than a few days. Except for a case of beer bottles, the countertops were clear.
I walked back to the living room. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” he said.
His goatee had been shaved off and his eyebrows were singed. Otherwise his face was clear.
“You had a lucky escape,” I said.
He shuddered. “Yeah.”
“Do you know what happened?”
He shook his head. “Dan told me the cops have taken the grill away. Just as well. I don’t want to go near the freakin’ thing ever again.” He reached for a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out. He lifted a disposable lighter in front of him. His hand shook so badly he had to flick it several times to get a flame. He cringed as he held fire to the cigarette. He took a deep drag. “Let me tell you, Merry, it’ll be a long time before I ever have another barbeque.” He rubbed his free hand over his chin and closed his eyes.
“I hope you’ll be feeling better soon,” I said.
“I’m fine. I just keep thinking about it, that’s all,” he said.
“Enjoy your lunch.” I let myself out.
If Kyle Lambert had come around to my place last night and set my garbage on fire, I’d grow a goatee myself.
I was back to square one.
* * *
Crystal left at five, and at six I closed the shop. Jackie headed out to administer to Kyle. I hurried home to shower and change for my dinner date at Alan’s.
Was it a date? I still didn’t know.
I studied my wardrobe. Definitely not something sexy, in case he thought he was inviting a client around for a business dinner. Then again, not too businesslike as it was a Sunday night in Upstate New York. On the other hand, I didn’t want to look like a country hick, either.
I settled on jeans with an unadorned blue T-shirt and a cropped black leather jacket. I wrapped a blue scarf around my neck, and added dangling silver earrings. At the door, I pulled on calf-high boots with a one-inch heel. And then I ruined the carefully crafted effect by tossing on my new winter coat. Alan’s place was in the country and more snow was expected tonight. I knew better than to go even a short distance out of town unprepared for some sort of car emergency.
“You look very nice, too,” I said to Mattie. I’d given him a good brushing after I’d showered, washed my hair, and dressed. Perhaps I should have brushed him before doing all that, as I’d then had to pick strands of long tan fur off my clothes and reapply the lipstick and blush he’d licked off in his appreciation of my attentions.
I hadn’t had many chances to take Mattie out in the car, but the couple of times I had he’d seemed to enjoy it. Tonight, he leapt into the backseat when I held the door open for him. I owned a Honda Civic. I might need to get a bigger car when this dog finally stopped growing. If he ever did.
I’d been to Alan’s house before, sourcing products for the store. He lived about fifteen minutes outside of Rudolph, heading inland from Lake Ontario. His property was deep in the woods, beautifully quiet and private. He lived in a nineteenth-century stone farmhouse, which I’d never been inside. He did all his work in a detached workshop at the end of the long curving dirt road that served as his driveway.
Snow began to fall as Mattie and I headed out of town. The bright lights of Rudolph faded behind us, and the early winter dark swallowed us up. My headlights picked out falling, swirling flakes. Trees, skeletal branches heavy with snow, closed around us. We only passed a handful of cars, but Mattie got very excited when he saw the headlights approaching. I kept an eye on my mileage indicator, counting off the distance until the turn toward Alan’s house. It wasn’t well marked, and I could easily miss it in the dark.
I slowed, and turned in. The road had been recently plowed, but fresh, undisturbed snow was beginning to cover it again. The path was lined by giant old oaks, maples, and tall pines heavy with snow. The trees fell back as I drove into the clearing of Alan’s well-maintained property. Warm yellow lights were on throughout the house, and strands of welcoming Christmas lights, red and green, trimmed the porch railing and the eaves. I felt myself smiling. What a perfect place for Santa’s number one toymaker to live and work.
All the lights were off in the workshop building. I pulled in beside it. We were going to be loading boxes into my car, so I wanted to be close. I switched off the engine, climbed out of the car, and let Mattie out. I didn’t want him running off into the night woods in pursuit of little animals to play with, so I attached the leash to his collar. The front door of the house opened, and Alan stood there, a long, thin silhouette outlined in a blaze of light. He lifted one hand in greeting and began to come down the steps.
Off to my left, something caught my eye. Light where there shouldn’t be any. I looked closer. A red glow flickered behind the window of the workshop. It disappeared and I thought my eyes had been playing tricks.
Then I saw it again, larger and brighter. As I watched, the light steadied, and then it began to grow. Shades of yellow joined the red.
Alan’s workshop was on fire.
Chapter 20
“Fire!” I screamed. “Alan, the workshop!”
Mattie barked.
Alan was beside me in a moment. I pointed. Flames were clearly visible now, licking at the window frame.
With a shout, Alan ran for the building.
“Don’t go in,” I yelled. The door was on the opposite side of the workshop from the now-visible flames, but there was no way of knowing what else might be happening inside.
“Fire extinguisher,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Kitchen.”
I ran. On the outside Alan’s house was all weathered stone and freshly painted gingerbread trim, but the inside was open spaces and sleek modern lines. The front door opened directly onto a big, open-plan kitchen. I had no trouble locating the small fire extinguisher attached to the wall next to the gas stove. I wrenched the extinguisher out of its brackets and dashed outside. Mattie was running around the yard, barking. I’d dropped the leash without realizing it. Right now, I could only hope he wouldn’t run off into the woods and get snagged on something.
I ran into the workshop; waves of white smoke washed over me as they fought their way toward fresh night air. I coughed and my eyes stung. It was impossible to see much in the dark and the smoke, but I could see that the entire building wasn’t on fire. Not yet. The room was warm, but not frighteningly hot.
Alan was beating at the flames with a blanket. With a shout, I handed him the extinguisher. He tossed aside the blanket, aimed the extinguisher at the heart of the fire, and sprayed. The blaze die
d without putting up a fight. We’d gotten it in time.
The planks of planed, golden wood stacked neatly beneath the window were a couple of inches thick, and not inclined to burn easily. Some smaller pieces on top had caught fire and acted like kindling, giving the blaze time to grow and to build. A few more minutes and Alan might well have lost his workshop, all his raw wood, and the toys and woodwork both unfinished and ready to be shipped. He tossed the empty extinguisher to one side and approached the smoldering debris. His eyes were red and a streak of black ash ran across one cheek. He coughed.
“Careful,” I said, trying not to breathe in smoke. I sniffed the air, but I detected nothing but the familiar scent of woodsmoke, although thicker and much heavier than from a cheerfully burning fireplace. Mattie had followed me into the workshop. He let out a mighty sneeze and whined. He pressed against my leg and I gave him a comforting pat. The comfort, as much for me as for him.
Alan picked up a long, thin piece of wood, and with it he stirred ashes and burned scraps of wood, checking for the remains of live embers.
“What the heck?” he said as he uncovered the scorched remains of a scrap of red fabric. Using the pole, he lifted the cloth, brought it close to his nose, and sniffed. He turned and gave me a look.
“Gas.”
I sucked in a breath without thinking, and choked. Through my cough, I managed to say, “You think this was deliberate?” I glanced around the workshop. A woodstove stood against the back wall, but it was dark and cold. An electric heater was not even plugged in.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.” He pointed to the broken window and the floor beneath. A rock, a small, ordinary gray rock, about the size of my fist, lay there, surrounded by shards of glass. “Someone deliberately broke that window. I heard a sound ten minutes or so ago, didn’t pay it any mind. I hear lots of sounds in the woods at night. And then, it would seem, they tossed in a burning cloth.”
“Someone tried to burn down your workshop?”