by Vicki Delany
“They didn’t try very hard, though. Just one cloth—might have gone out if those loose wood chips hadn’t caught. If they really wanted to burn it down, why not spread gas over the exterior walls? The building’s old and all wood, it would have gone up fast enough.”
“Is there much damage?” I studied a row of toy soldiers and trains on the table closest to the window. The paint was blistered and the wood blackening, but they seemed to be intact.
“That’s the drying table,” Alan said. “I’ll give them a good look, but I suspect I’ll have to throw most of them out. I’m sorry, Merry, but those are the ones I had ready for you. I figured you could help me box them up after dinner. Some might be saved, if I add a fresh coat of paint. I’m so sorry,” he said again.
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “You have to call Detective Simmonds. This is part of a pattern, Alan. Strange things have been happening around here. You could have been killed if the fire got out of control and you tried to put it out yourself.”
He gave me a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. The tip of his nose was gray with smudged ash. “Looks like you saved my life, Merry.”
“I had good timing, that’s all.”
Alan grabbed a flashlight hanging on a hook next to the door beside an assortment of raincoats and umbrellas and a battered snow shovel, and went outside. I bent to grab Mattie’s leash, and the dog and I followed Alan around the workshop to the side of the building where the fire had apparently begun.
Under the window, snow was churned up, but some boot prints were clearly visible. Mattie strained at the leash to get closer to give it all a good sniff. “I’d better put the dog in the car,” I said. “Looks like we have a crime scene here.”
Mattie didn’t want to come, but I dragged him away. I opened the back door of the car and indicated he should jump up. He didn’t want to but he did. Despite what was happening around us, I had a moment of pleasure at the thought that some of his training was starting to pay off.
“You wait here,” I said, unfastening the leash. “I’ll be right back.”
I stuffed the leash into my coat pocket and returned to where Alan was balanced on his haunches, examining the prints in the snow under the window. “See anything?” I said.
He got to his feet and pointed to the double row of prints. In places they crisscrossed each other, but it was clear that some were coming, and some were heading away.
“I’m no Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “but that looks to me like a clear trail. Did you see a car or anything when you came up the drive, Merry?”
“No. And no tire tracks, either. The snow was undisturbed.”
“Which means our arsonist walked in.”
“From where?” I asked
“That’s the question, isn’t it? He might have parked on an access road and hiked in. Or . . .”
His voice trailed away as he took off at a brisk pace across his yard, keeping himself about two feet to the left of the boot prints.
“Don’t, Alan,” I said. “Let the police handle it.”
He turned and faced me. The blue eyes that I had once thought as clear and light as a summer sky were heavy with storm clouds. “I can’t chance them getting away, Merry. You wait here, and tell the cops where I’ve gone.” He reached out and touched my shoulder. The touch so light I scarcely felt it. “Get in the house, lock the doors. Take the dog with you.”
“Mattie isn’t exactly an attack dog,” I said.
“No. But he is a dog. And a smart one.” Then Alan turned and walked away. In a few steps he was swallowed up by the night woods. I glanced back at my car. Mattie’s ears were up and his curious face stared out at me from the back window. I looked at Alan’s house. The front door stood open, the way he’d left it when he came out to greet me. While we were inside the workshop, fighting the fire, the arsonist might have gone into the house. Was he or she in there now? Waiting for me?
I shoved my hand into the deep pocket of my coat, searching for my phone to call the police. My fingers closed on a square of paper, and I pulled out the card Diane Simmonds had given me this morning. I could call 911, ask them to contact her, but I figured I’d be better off doing it directly. Who knows when a message might get to her if she was off duty? I flipped the card over and punched the handwritten numbers into the phone.
“Diane Simmonds,” said the cool voice.
I told her where I was and what had happened. I surprised myself at how calm my voice sounded.
“I’m on my way,” she said. “I’ll call the state police to meet me there. Do not attempt to locate the suspect yourself, Merry.”
“Okay,” I said. I wasn’t attempting to locate anyone. But Alan was. I didn’t say so before I hung up.
I glanced once again at the house and the open front door, spilling welcoming light into the yard. I wasn’t conscious of making a decision, but I broke into a trot after Alan. Safety in numbers, and all that. I did spare a thought for Mattie, but decided he’d be better waiting in the car. He’d be no help to me and I’d only have something else to worry about while we stumbled around in the night woods. I found the flashlight app on my phone and flicked it on. Then I melted into the thick, dark, snowy woods. The beam of light from my phone was small but powerful as it illuminated the ground in front of me. I’d entered a path. At least three feet wide, it cut neatly through the woods. I could clearly see the boot prints we were following, Alan’s larger ones running along beside. Were they from a man or a woman? Hard to tell. They were average-sized snow boots, strong and heavy, with a thick tread. They might be those of a woman with larger feet than normal, or a man with smaller ones.
“I told you to stay behind,” a voice said out of the darkness.
I smothered a yelp. “I thought you might need help.”
“Come on” was all Alan said.
The path got narrower as we walked, and we had to go in single file, staying close to the prints laid down earlier.
“What’s at the other end of this trail?” I whispered. All was dark and quiet. No traffic from the road and no sound from wild animals, either.
“My closest neighbor. Fergus Cartwright.”
“You mean our mayor?”
“The very one. The people who lived here before him had kids and the kids loved to come to visit me in the workshop, so their parents kept this trail clear.”
Fergus’s house wasn’t far away, and before long, thin streams of yellow light slipped through the trees. Alan signaled to me to stop at the edge of the wide, snow-covered lawn. It, and the parking area in front of the double garage, were brightly lit.
Snow was falling heavily now, not fat Christmassy flakes, but hard pellets mixed with ice. I pulled my collar up and buried my hand in my pockets. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost my gloves. Alan, who’d stepped out of his house expecting only to welcome a guest, was protected by nothing but a thick wool sweater.
Fergus’s house was modern, a large building of wood and glass with a wide wraparound porch and a double garage. A stone chimney broke through the roof at the front of the house. Lights were on inside, both upstairs and down, and smoke trailed from the chimney.
The double garage doors were closed and a single vehicle was parked in the circle of light thrown off the porch. A black Suburban. I sucked in a breath.
“What is it?” Alan said.
“I recognize that car. Give me a sec.” I slipped through the trees until I could clearly see the back of the vehicle and read the license plate: SUEANNE1.
I whispered to Alan, “Sue-Anne Morrow’s here. I recognize her car.”
Illuminated only by my iPhone app, his eyes shone in the dark. “Did you call the cops?”
“Simmonds is coming, and she’s sending the state police.”
“Call her back,” he said. “Then give me the phone.”
I placed the call
and handed the phone to Alan. He spoke quickly, gave the address. And then he hung up.
All was quiet. We couldn’t even hear traffic from the road.
“We can’t wait,” Alan said. “I have to go in. See what’s going on. Fergus might be in danger.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“I’d rather you weren’t, Merry, but I don’t suppose I can stop you?”
“No,” I said.
So, it was Sue-Anne after all. Sue-Anne trying to ruin Christmas in Rudolph. Sue-Anne who’d poisoned the Charles Dickens cookie, who’d tried to burn down Alan’s workshop, set fire to my garbage can, disabled my float, tried to get my dad out of town.
I almost slapped myself across the head as I remembered who’d been raised on a farm. Sue-Anne’s husband had told me she had. Hardscrabble, he’d called it. In that case, it was entirely possible Sue-Anne would know how to disable George’s tractor.
“Let’s go,” Alan said. “Stay behind me.”
He marched boldly across the snowy lawn and up the front steps, making no attempt to be discreet or stay hidden. I ran along behind him, my heart beating rapidly.
We hesitated on the porch. From inside the house came the sound of voices. Low, angry voices.
Alan didn’t bother to knock. He simply turned the doorknob and walked into Fergus Cartwright’s house, calling, “Anyone home?” as if this were a regular Sunday visit. I scurried after him.
Perhaps the first thing I noticed was that the house was not decorated for Christmas. No lovingly adorned fresh tree, no carefully preserved family heirlooms, handed down from generation to generation, no red and white flowers, no handcrafted arrangements. Not even a poinsettia or a Christmas cactus.
No wreath had hung on the front door. No greeting cards were arranged on the mantle. That was almost tantamount to sacrilege in Rudolph. I knew that Fergus’s wife had left him once their kids were grown and out of the house. Still, he could make some effort!
Fergus’s living room might have come directly from the props room at Jennifer’s Lifestyle magazine for a featured spread on the modern western home. Burnt sienna walls, leather furniture, paintings of horses galloping across the open prairie, a fire burning in a stone fireplace so large you could probably roast an ox, if you were so inclined. And, like in an old-fashioned western, Sue-Anne Morrow and Fergus Cartwright stood in the center of the room staring each other down, legs apart, feet planted.
Fergus faced us. Surprise crossed his face when we came in. He saw Alan first, and then me. “What do you think you’re doing here, walking into my home like this?” he said. “Get out.”
Sue-Anne whirled around. She smiled at us and seemed almost pleased to see us. I thought that a bit of nerve. “Come on in,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here. I was telling Fergus that his time as mayor is finished. Let’s not drag this out into a long, expensive campaign that will only divide the town. It’s past time for Fergus to quit.”
“Never,” His Honor growled. “Rudolph is my town.”
“You don’t even live in Rudolph,” she said. “Look at this place. You’d obviously rather be on a ranch in Montana.”
I strained my ears for the sound of sirens, but outside all was quiet. Where were those blasted cops?
“Sue-Anne,” Alan said, “come with me. We can talk about this another time.”
“I don’t want to talk about it another time,” she said. “I’m here now. Trying to talk some reason into this old coot.”
Alan walked slowly across the room, across the huge, exquisite Navajo rug that, if it was authentic, must have cost in the tens of thousands. He kept his eyes on Fergus, but he reached out and placed his hand on the woman’s arm. “Come with me, Sue-Anne, please,” he said in a low, firm voice.
Wasn’t it Fergus who needed to be taken out of danger? I was about to yell at him, tell him to run, find cover. Who knew what Sue-Anne might have hidden under her coat? I opened my mouth, but no warning shout came out, because I had noticed two things.
Sue-Anne’s fashionable size-six boots had pointed toes and stiletto heels.
Fergus’s head and shoulders were damp with melting snow.
“No,” Fergus said. “It’s time to settle this. Here and now. This is my town. Mine. People like you need to understand that. I’m the only one who can keep Rudolph strong and prosperous. Folks need to be reminded sometimes.”
“Absolutely,” Alan said. “You have my vote, Fergus. Yours, too. Right, Merry?” He threw me a glance, jerking his head toward the door behind us.
Sue-Anne looked as though she were going to argue. But then I saw comprehension slowly cross her face. “Uh, yeah. Okay,” she said.
“Folks around here think I’m Noel Wilkinson’s puppet,” Fergus continued. I doubt he’d even heard Alan say whom he’d be voting for. “Santa Claus indeed. If only that blasted Noel would get out of my way, everyone would see that I’m the power in this town. No one else. I can break it. And only I can fix it.”
Alan and Sue-Anne had been backing up slowly, leaving me closest to Fergus. The mayor’s eyes widened, and then they focused and he saw us.
He lunged for the fireplace and grabbed an iron poker. Alan shouted a warning. Sue-Anne screamed. Fergus held the poker, blackened and dusted with cold gray ash, aloft.
“You!” He turned on me. “You’re as bad as your father. Couldn’t mind your own business, could you? Had to keep nosing around, asking questions.” His eyes were wild and mad. He charged.
“Merry!” Alan screamed.
Sue-Anne just screamed.
I ducked. I tried to run, but my foot caught the edge of the Navajo rug, and I went down, landing hard on my butt. Fergus closed on me, the poker raised high. My hand found something in my pocket. I didn’t think about what I was doing as I pulled it out and whipped it upward. It sliced through the air with a hiss. The metal clip on Mattie’s leash got His Honor hard in his left cheek. He howled and staggered backward. He dropped the poker and lifted a hand to the wound, shocked at the sudden pain.
Then Alan was on him and Fergus went down.
Outside, an engine rumbled, and bright lights poured through the living room windows.
“Go see who that is, Merry,” Alan said, his voice calm, in control. “I’ll stay here.”
“Welcome. You’re just in time,” I said as I opened the front door.
“What’s happening?” Diane Simmonds asked.
“We’re all in the living room,” I said. “Come on in.”
She gave me a long look, and then pushed past me.
Fergus was on the floor, Alan standing over him, armed with the poker. Sue-Anne was curled up on the couch, weeping noisily.
“It was him?” Simmonds said to me. “Fergus?”
“We think so. We followed boot prints from the site of the fire directly here. When we confronted Fergus, he suggested he was responsible for all the other awful stuff that’s been happening.”
“Including the murder of Nigel Pearce?” she asked.
I shook my head. “That didn’t come up.”
Simmonds pulled handcuffs off her belt. Alan stepped away, and she quickly and efficiently cuffed the groaning mayor.
Chapter 21
Russ Durham arrived seconds behind Simmonds. He burst into Fergus’s house the moment the detective snapped on the cuffs and hauled Fergus to his feet, giving him the expected warning.
“It’s my town. Mine!” His Honor bellowed as state police burst through the doors. Long after the excitement was over they’d finally showed up. Accident on the highway, they said with somber shakes of their bald heads—terrible stuff.
“Whatever,” Diane Simmonds had said.
“Want to tell me what happened?” Russ Durham asked me.
“Why are you here?” I said. The minute Diane had the cuffs on Fergus, my legs had given way.
I would have fallen to the floor had not Alan grabbed my arm and led me to a chair.
“A good reporter knows everything that’s going on in his patch.” Russ lowered his voice and gave me a grin, slow and private. “I was listening to the state police radio. Your name was mentioned, Merry. How could I not respond?”
“Respond?” I said. “In pursuit of a story? Or to help me?”
“I can’t say I forgot about being a newspaper man. But I was worried about you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”
We watched as Fergus was hustled out the door. He was handcuffed, escorted by cops, followed by a stern-faced Detective Simmonds. “It wasn’t my fault!” His Honor protested. “He had a heart attack or something. How was I to know he had a bad heart?”
“To whom are you referring, Mr. Cartwright?” Simmonds asked.
“That ridiculous Englishman, of course. Now, you seem like a sensible young lady, I’m sure you’ll understand. This is my town. People were forgetting that. I had to remind them, didn’t I?”
“Why?” I shouted. I couldn’t help myself. “Why? Nigel Pearce was going to do a feature on Rudolph. It’s what we’ve been wanting for so long. To be officially recognized as America’s Christmas Town. But you killed him. You almost killed Christmas!”
Fergus blinked. “Merry, dear. You’ll understand. You must know what it’s like living under Noel Wilkinson’s shadow.” Simmonds stopped walking. She let the man talk to me. I’d noticed Russ slip a digital recorder out of his pocket and press buttons.
“Any problems in Rudolph and everyone rushes to ask Noel what to do,” Fergus said. “They forget that I’m the mayor, not Noel. I showed them, didn’t I? I gave them problems, and I solved them, too.”
“You killed a man,” I said.
Fergus shrugged. “That was an accident. He was only supposed to get sick. It was Noel who’d written to that fancy foreign magazine suggesting they write something about Rudolph.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
Fergus snorted. “Noel said it would be good publicity for Rudolph but our so-called Santa Claus would have ended up getting all the credit. I had to show them, didn’t I, that Rudolph doesn’t need Noel Wilkinson anymore. I’m in charge here. I am!” As he spoke, Fergus’s voice began to rise and then he was screaming. The cops tightened their grip on his arm and at a nod from Simmonds they led him away, yelling at the top of his lungs that he was in charge.