by Vicki Delany
I’d need my car to get to the parade assembly ground later, so today I drove to work and parked in the back alley. Alan was waiting outside with boxes piled at his feet: two boxes of cranberry strings and another of the singing angels. Stubble was thick on his jaw and shadows like smudged makeup were under his blue eyes.
“I really appreciate this,” I said as I unlocked the door. “Were you up all night?”
“Most of it.” He gave me a smile that went a long way toward taking some of the tiredness out of his face. “You know I’m happy to do it for you, Merry.”
“Thanks.”
“I’d do just about anything for you,” he said, so quietly I barely heard him.
My tongue wrapped itself into knots. “How’s Amber?” I blurted out.
“Amber? I guess she’s okay. I haven’t heard otherwise. Oh. Merry, I was only having dinner with her the other night because her mother’s a good friend of my mom’s. She heard Amber was coming to Rudolph, so asked me to give her a call.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” I said.
He gave me a look I couldn’t decipher. “No, it sounds as though I don’t.”
I wanted to say something, anything, to make the awkward silence that had fallen between us go away. But before I could apologize, try to explain, he began carrying the boxes inside, deposited them on the floor in front of the main display table, and began taking the goods out. I put down my beach bag and the basket of candy canes so I could help. He passed things to me to arrange. “Alan,” I said. “I . . .”
“Anyone here?” Crystal, coming in the back.
“We’re out front,” I called.
She also carried a box. “This is the absolute last of my stuff, Merry. I hope it’s okay.”
“I know it will be,” I said.
“I hear one of your necklaces will be gracing the thin neck of none other than Erica Johnstone,” Alan said. “Congratulations.”
Crystal flushed. “I can’t say I’m not thrilled. But let’s wait and see if she actually wears it. I bet she has closets and jewelry cases full of stuff she buys but never so much as looks at again.”
I thought of the way Erica’d tossed the bag containing the necklace to Muriel. I wondered if she’d only wanted it so as to make a big show of Max’s devotion in public.
“The photographer and the other people from the magazine will be here after closing tonight,” I said. “That’s at six. Why don’t you two come by? Maybe they’ll want to talk to you about your stuff.”
Crystal beamed. Alan said, “Okay.”
“What are you wearing for the parade?” Crystal asked.
“Secret,” I said.
“The usual,” Alan said.
“The usual?” she said. “You’re going to roast in that getup.”
“I’m sure a breeze will be coming off the water.”
“Let’s hope. Gotta run.” She opened her mouth and sang a scale. “Practice, practice.”
“You’ll be great.” I gave her a hug for good luck. Not that she needed it.
Alan walked out with her. I quickly arranged the new arrivals on the shelves, and then I took the bag containing my costume into the office before flipping the sign on the front door to “Open.” Minutes later, two women came in. I guessed they were mother and daughter, as they looked remarkably alike despite the thirty-year age difference. They glanced around the shop, and the older one asked me to show her the necklace Erica’s fiancé had bought.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have one exactly the same because that piece was individually crafted. But many other examples of the artist’s work are in stock.” I held up a brooch designed to look like a holiday wreath in one hand and a silver chain with a reindeer pendant in the other. “These arrived only a few minutes ago. The artist delivered them herself.”
“I cannot believe our luck,” the older woman said. “Imagine, we booked at the Yuletide Inn months ago as a special treat for the children, and who do we find staying there but Erica Johnstone!”
“Mom’s a big fan of Jennifer Johnstone,” the younger woman said.
“I don’t know that I’d say I’m a fan. But I do admire her taste and her business smarts. She built that company up from nothing, you know, after her husband died. He owned a little magazine for the furniture business, and she turned it into a billion-dollar company all on her own. I can’t say I’m happy about the direction the magazine’s taken since Erica was put in charge. I don’t need makeup tips using face cream at a thousand dollars a jar, thank you very much. I don’t suppose Erica said anything about getting a gift for her grandmother?”
“Sorry, no.” I was still holding the jewelry. The daughter had wandered off to look at the toys. If I was a shady sort of businesswoman, I’d tell this woman that Erica had said her grandmother would adore the brooch. But I wasn’t, and so I didn’t.
My honesty was rewarded when she said, “Too bad. I’ll take those pieces. They’ll make nice gifts.” I put them on the counter.
“Mom saw her last night,” the daughter said, adding two stuffed reindeer to the purchases. “At the hotel. In the garden.”
“We’d fed the children early so we could have a nice adult dinner in the restaurant. It was marvelous, wasn’t it, dear? I had the lamb chops. Delicious. After dinner, I said to Jim, that’s my husband, that I wanted a stroll in the garden. So romantic.” She looked at her daughter. “It’s important, dear, to keep the romance alive. Particularly when children start to arrive and so many other things seem to take precedence.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“There she was. None other than Erica Johnstone. I can’t say I’d recognize her if I saw her walking down the street, but of course everyone in the hotel was talking about her. She was with her fiancé. They have time for romance.” Another side glance at her daughter. “The gardens at the inn are so beautifully done.”
“They certainly are,” I said. “They’re a popular wedding destination.”
Last night, over pizza and a glass of wine in front of the TV, Vicky had told me that, according to Mark, ever since Erica had been observed walking in the Yuletide gardens, bookings for the inn’s outdoor wedding space had started flooding in. They were almost fully booked for the next three years. If this woman—and all the brides looking for the perfect wedding venue—knew what Max and Erica had been talking about on their supposedly romantic walk (her paying him to marry her and father her children; him plotting to set up a second household) she might not be pushing her daughter so hard to emulate them.
“A photographer from the magazine was following them,” she said. “He was taking some pre-wedding pictures. Imagine, I might see them in the magazine.”
I reminded myself that whenever I found myself thinking it would be nice to be rich, I’d think about what it must be like living a life of people peering into restaurant windows watching you eat, or tiptoeing through the bushes to see what type of flowers you admired.
• • •
The parade was scheduled to begin at one. Shortly after noon I went into the back and changed into my costume. When I emerged, Jackie peered at me through lowered eyelashes and said nothing. Which was just as well. She was still annoyed at having to work and making sure I knew it.
“I’m off,” I said. “I expect to be back around three, depending on the size of the crowd.”
“Harrumph,” she said.
I went out the back. I pulled the door shut behind me, checked the lock had secured as I always did, got into my car, and drove out of town.
When I passed the park and the beach, I could see that a good-sized crowd had gathered.
The flotilla assembled at a small boat launch near a rocky shoreline and a patch of scrub about two miles past the park. Mattie and I came here regularly so I could let him enjoy a swim and a run off the leash.
Eve
ry sort of watercraft from thirty-foot sailboats to canoes to Jet Skis would be taking part in the parade, and most of them had been decorated with a heavy hand. Extravagantly trimmed Christmas trees stood on decks, lights draped all visible surfaces, excited children in colorful clothes and elf hats or reindeer antlers (and life jackets) lined the gunwales or sat in the bow. A fishing boat carried the high school band and another had been commandeered to bring some of the town dignitaries. Vicky, who usually won best of parade twice a year, had declined to participate this year. She didn’t, she told me with a sniff, do boats. Instead, she’d decorated her bakery’s tent and table in the park.
Santa’s boat was a big pontoon, conveniently painted red and white. A thronelike chair had been set up in the back for Dad to sit in, and younger kids from my mom’s vocal school had been recruited to be elves. They looked adorable in white shorts, turquoise T-shirts under their life jackets, and matching turquoise ball caps. Parents loaded them onboard with last-minute instructions about not leaning over the side and not removing their life jackets.
I was looking around, wondering where my dad was—we couldn’t start without him—when an excited murmur stirred near the parking lot.
Santa was coming. Even though we all, except for the youngest children, knew it was only Noel Wilkinson, the excitement began to build. I stood on my tiptoes to see better. I laughed.
Dad was dressed in a 1900s-style men’s bathing suit with short sleeves and buttons at the throat. It had wide horizontal black and white stripes and came to midthigh. His big round belly made the midsection look like a soccer ball. He wore a red ball cap with a white pom-pom sewn onto the top and rimless sunglasses. His curly gray hair and full white beard needed no augmentation.
“Absolutely perfect.” Alan stood beside me. He was in his head toymaker costume of knee-length britches, wool stockings, heavy jacket, gray wig, stuck-on gray sideburns, and plain spectacles. He wiped his brow. “I’m beginning to regret not dressing for the season. You look great, Merry.”
The wig made me feel as though I had a pizza oven on my head. “Thanks.” I smiled at him. He smiled back, and I hoped I’d be able to make everything okay between us.
“Let’s not keep the kiddies waiting,” Dad said. “I drove past the park on my way here, and there’s quite a crowd. The chair and umbrella are set up on the beach, and some of the elves are in position. You have your pen ready, Alan?”
“Sure do. It’s on the boat.” At the beach, Alan would stand beside Santa, writing the children’s wishes down with a feather-topped pen onto a long paper scroll while I gave candy canes to those waiting in line.
Candy canes!
“Shoot! I left the candy and basket at the shop. Forgot all about them.” I tried to remember where I’d last seen them. I’d put them down to help Alan arrange his goods. I’d taken my bag into the office but I didn’t think about the candy again.
“That won’t do, Merry,” Dad said sternly.
“When we dock, I’ll run and get them,” Alan said.
“No,” Dad said. “I need you with me. I’ll phone Aline and get her to send Crystal. No, they’ll have begun the concert by now, and she’ll have switched her phone off.”
I briefly considered calling Jackie and asking her to bring the needed items. But I feared that if she closed the shop for ten minutes, she’d hang around at the park and make excuses not to go back. And still expect the hundred dollars. “I’ll go,” I said. “I can run to the store in a couple of minutes and be back almost as soon as you’ve made your way to your chair.”
That settled, we climbed onto the boat and set sail.
The parade was great fun. Nothing is quite as marvelous as being out on the water on a hot summer’s day. At the houses lining the lakefront, people had brought out chairs and blankets to sit on. They cheered and waved as we passed while excited children ran along the shoreline. A good number of the properties had Christmas or Santa Claus flags flapping cheerfully in the light wind, and the park itself was festively draped with more flags and bunting.
On the bandstand, my mom’s vocal class sang the last notes of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” as we came into sight. The park was a mass of people and color. A great cheer rose up from the crowd as they caught sight of Santa, bringing up the end of the flotilla. I turned to look at Dad, smiling and waving from his throne, and caught Alan’s eye over his head. Santa’s head toymaker smiled at me.
I was a fool. I couldn’t let this wonderful man go just because a shallow, ambitious one had betrayed the entire meaning of love and broken my heart in the process. After I’d gotten the candy canes and we’d fulfilled our roles of Mrs. Claus and toymaker in chief, I’d invite Alan to my house for dinner. It was time to tell him that I wanted to be with him.
I could only hope he still wanted to be with me.
Santa’s boat maneuvered close to the small dock at the park while the rest of the parade bobbed on the water offshore. Some of the restaurants and coffee shops had set up refreshment stands on the lawn, including Vicky’s bakery, and local farmers were selling fresh eggs and produce. The service clubs and local charities were handing out brochures and accepting donations. The town of Rudolph had a big booth with tourist information. Next to it was the stand from the nearby town of Muddle Harbor’s parks and recreation department. I wondered if they chose a tent in that shade of muddy brown deliberately. I also wondered if Muddle Harbor actually had any parks, never mind recreation. They were a dour lot. Closer to the water, the stretch of sandy beach was covered with beach umbrellas, chairs and blankets, picnic baskets, and happy families.
As arranged, Sue-Anne Morrow, the mayor, was waiting on the dock to greet Santa. Dad was first off the boat, and Sue-Anne made a big show of presenting him with a foot-long plastic key on a red ribbon while Russ Durham snapped photos for the paper. Sue-Anne had wanted Dad to come up onto the bandstand to receive the key to the city. He, wisely, refused. Give Sue-Anne a microphone and she’d talk all day. He’d also instructed my mom to resume the concert exactly thirty seconds after Sue-Anne approached him.
I slipped away. Russ raised one eyebrow as I passed, and I said, “Forgot something. Be right back.”
A uniformed police officer stood at the bottom of the dock, keeping the eager fans at bay. “Love the look, Merry,” she said. “Those colors are so you. Leaving already?” It was Officer Candice Campbell. I’d known Candy, as she’d been called in school, for a long time. We had never been friends.
“Be right back,” I repeated, swallowing a return barb. It might be the middle of summer, a big yellow sun was beating down on my hat and wig, and the air was so thick with humidity I could almost swim in it, but it was Christmas in Rudolph, and I was full of the holiday spirit.
The small building housing the North Pole Ice Cream Parlor sits next to the dock, with a front wall that rolls up so the shop opens directly onto the park. For what would probably be the only time today, there was no lineup, and I could see Kyle Lambert, dressed in a pink and white striped shirt with a big red bow tie and a round white hat, wiping down the counter.
I pulled my wrap up to my knees and galloped through the park and down the street, accompanied by the sound of my mom’s preteen class singing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Not being in the company of Santa Claus, I looked like an eccentric woman with a severe phobia against the sun, and no one paid me any attention. Not that there were many people around in any event. Even Jingle Bell Lane was deserted; everyone had gone to the park to watch Santa arrive. Some of my fellow shop owners stood in their doorways, wondering where everyone was. I threw open the door to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, and the bells tinkled in greeting. “Just me! I forgot something.”
The basket containing the little red and white striped candy canes was sitting on a side table. I headed for it, calling, “Jackie. It’s me.”
The shop was quiet and empty.
I
stopped and listened. If she was in the storage room or the tiny restroom, I’d expect her to call out. “Jackie?”
Leaving the basket where it was, I checked the alcoves first and then slipped through the curtain to the back. The restroom door stood open, and the storage room, usually piled high with boxes, was almost empty. My office door was closed. If Jackie had gone in there looking for something, surely she’d let me know where she was. I checked the back door, wondering if she’d gone out for some air, although today the air in the shop was a good deal more pleasant than the hot sticky stuff outdoors. The door was locked, as I’d left it, so I didn’t venture into the alley.
Enough was enough. No matter how good a salesperson she was, if she’d skipped off work, expecting me to be busy down at the park, leaving the store unstaffed and the door unlocked, I’d fire her.
I pushed on the door to my office, but it didn’t open very far. Something was blocking it. I shoved harder at it, all thoughts of firing gone. Jackie was young and healthy, but sudden illness could happen to anyone. “Jackie!” I yelled. No sounds came from within. Something shifted, and inch by inch the door opened until I could squeeze in.
My heart leapt into my throat.
Not Jackie.
Max Folger was sprawled across the floor, a string of red wooden balls crafted to look like cranberries wrapped around his neck. He did not move.
Chapter 5
I dropped to my knees beside Max. I gave him a good shove, thinking, hoping, he was playing silly games. His head rolled back. His eyes were open, and I knew no one could hold that look. I fumbled to untie the cranberry string from around his neck, but the end was wrapped over and over itself, and it was too tight for me to get my fingers under it to snap it. It would have to be cut off.
I scrambled across the room on my hands and knees and grabbed for the scissors I keep on my desk in the clay pencil holder I’d made in middle school. The theme of the school project was supposed to be, as it sometimes seemed everything in Rudolph was, Christmas. I’d tried to fasten a pair of antlers onto the blob of clay. Rather than a reindeer, it resembled a Star Trek Ferengi. I’d rescued it from my mother’s trash when I came home from college after my first semester. Now, in my fumbling haste, I knocked the holder over. Pens and pencils, markers, rulers, paper clips, even a nail file, scattered across the desk and rolled onto the floor. But I had hold of the scissors. I sliced the string around Max’s neck. In a burst of color, cranberries flew around the room.