by Vicki Delany
But Max did not attempt to sit up, coughing and struggling for breath.
I touched the side of his neck and felt nothing move.
“Oh, Max,” I said. “Poor Max.” I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my beach wrap and called 911. I stayed on the line, as instructed, as I got to my feet and went to the street door to wait for the police. Before leaving the office, I glanced back. Max lay on the floor, surrounded by small red wooden balls, office detritus, and my footprints. My feet had been in the water as I clambered in and out of the boat, and my shoes had picked up sand and gravel on the beach. The police would not be pleased at me for disturbing the crime scene, but I had to try to save him. Hadn’t I?
That it was a crime scene, I had no doubt, and I’d told the 911 dispatcher so. Max hadn’t been casually playing with a cranberry string, and he hadn’t accidentally tied it around his neck.
Someone had killed him, and my first thought was who. My second thought was, what was Max doing here—in my shop—anyway?
Jackie! All thoughts of what happened to Max fled. Where was Jackie? When I’d been calling for her, I hadn’t considered she might be hiding from me, so I’d simply peeked into the rooms.
“Sorry, gotta check something out,” I said to the 911 operator, hanging up over her protests. I called Jackie, straining my ears for the sound of her phone ringing in answer. Nothing. A deadly silence lay over the shop. I shivered, thinking the air-conditioning was turned up too high. The phone rang three times, and then Jackie’s surprisingly formal voice mail answered. “Jackie O’Reilly speaking. Please leave me a message, and I will return your call.”
“Jackie, it’s me, Merry. It is absolutely vital that you call me the moment you get this. Please.”
I ran into the restroom and the storage room. I peeked behind doors and over boxes. I ventured back into my office and, trying not to look at Max, checked under my desk. In the alcoves, I searched under tables, and I looked behind the sales counter in the main room.
Not a sign of her.
There was also no sign of a fight or a struggle. Had she been overcome before realizing she was in danger and carried off? Was she in the back alley? Unconscious, or worse?
I started toward the back once again, when I heard the sound of sirens approaching. I threw open the door as a cruiser doubled-parked in front of my shop. A male officer got out. In the distance I could see Candice Campbell heading our way at a rapid trot.
Not everyone was at the park. Heads popped out of shops, cars slowed to see what was going on, and people on the sidewalk stopped walking to gape.
“He’s in the back. My office. I’ll show you,” I said to the officer. “Has someone called Detective Simmonds?”
He grunted in reply. Candy ran into the shop, weapon in hand, and the older cop said, “Search the premises.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, “I’ve checked everywhere. No one’s hiding.”
“Do it,” he said.
“Can’t you keep yourself out of trouble, Merry?” Candy said with a barely controlled sneer. “Soon as they said possible homicide, I knew it had to be you.” Officer Campbell and I, as I have said, have a history. And it’s not a good one.
“Hey,” I protested. “I had nothing to do with it, Candy.” The use of her nickname was a retaliatory shot. She hated to be called Candy. It was not a good name for a cop.
She glared at me.
“I said,” the man snapped, “search the premises.”
I stepped forward. “I’ll show you where . . .”
He lifted his hand. “Stay here. Tell me.”
“First door on the right. It’s the office. He . . .” I swallowed. “He’s in there.”
The front door opened once again. Detective Diane Simmonds came in. She’d probably been at the beach, too. She wore white shorts that showed off long, tanned legs, a loose blue and yellow striped T-shirt, and a Chicago White Sox ball cap. “You called this in, Merry?” she asked me.
I nodded.
“I saw you on the boat with Santa not more than a few minutes ago. Did you finish up there?”
I shook my head. “Forgot something.”
Candy came out of the back, putting her gun in its holster. “All’s clear.”
“In here, Detective,” the man shouted.
“Take the door, Campbell,” Simmonds said. “No one comes in unless they’re with us. Log everyone in and out.”
“My assistant, Jackie. I can’t find her. Can someone look for her, please? She would have been here when . . . when it happened. I’m worried. You should, maybe, check the alley.”
Simmonds spoke quickly into her radio. More cruisers were pulling up outside, the crowd beginning to build. “Stay here, Merry. I’ll want to talk to you.”
“I have to get back to the beach.” I pointed to the basket of candy canes on the side table. “Santa Claus is waiting for me.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew how ridiculous I must sound.
Clearly, Simmonds thought so, too. “I think Santa can manage on his own for a little while.” She pushed her way through the curtain, and I was alone in my shop. I ordered myself to calm down. People were searching for Jackie. She would have run for safety when Max and his killer came in. Soon as she sees the police are here, she’ll come back.
I know every inch of this shop and the location of every piece of merchandise. Not a thing seemed out of place. Business would have been slow to nonexistent. Jackie might not have made any sales since I left.
Sales! Money!
I ran behind the counter and pushed buttons to open the cash register. The bills were tidily stacked in their compartments. I wouldn’t know for sure until I counted, but it certainly didn’t look as though any money had been taken. Someone, person or persons unknown, must have come in, planning to hold up the store. Then Max arrived and disturbed him, Jackie fled, and poor Max ended up dead. I tried Jackie’s phone again. Still no answer. I left the same message as before.
Simmonds came back. “I don’t recognize him. Do you know who he is, Merry?” Candy opened the door for two men dressed in jackets and sunglasses. They looked all business. They gave Simmonds a curt nod. One of them said something to the other before they headed toward the back.
“His name’s Max Folger,” I said. “He’s with a magazine that’s here to do a feature on Rudolph. Jennifer’s Lifestyle. The whole crew was in here yesterday. They planned to do a photo shoot tonight after closing.” For some reason, I didn’t mention that Max was . . . had been . . . far more to me than a visiting magazine editor. The death of Max had nothing to do with me. It had to be a random incident. Didn’t it?
“I’ll have to contact his coworkers. Do you have any phone numbers?”
“No. But I heard some of them are staying at the Yuletide.”
“Were you in here this morning? Before joining the parade? I know you were there, I saw you myself.”
“I opened up at the usual time. I left shortly after noon to get down to the boat, because the parade was scheduled to begin at one. Jackie was here when I left. She was going to staff the store until I got back.”
“Did Mr. Folger come in while you were here?”
I shook my head. “No. And he would have had absolutely no reason to go into my office. Even for the photo shoot, he wouldn’t go in there. No one wants to see a picture of my messy desk or the dog’s bed.”
“It looks like there was some sort of a struggle in there.”
I hadn’t noticed any signs of a struggle. In fact, I’d thought the opposite. I guess that’s why I’m not a detective. Then I understood. “Oh, you mean the pencil holder, the cranberries. That was me. Sorry.”
“You?”
“I didn’t know he was dead. I tried to help. I was . . . too late. Sorry.”
“And the footprints?” She glanced at my feet. I wa
s wearing sports sandals. The type with thick treads, which pick up all sorts of sand and gravel, particularly when wet. “Sorry,” I said again.
“It would appear, on first look, that Mr. Folger was strangled by a thin rope or a wire.”
“A cranberry string was around his neck. I cut it off.”
“Why don’t you have a seat?” Simmonds said to me. “I need to talk to you, might as well do it now. Can I send Campbell to get you a coffee? Water?”
Normally, I’d like nothing more than for Candy Campbell to be sent on errands on my behalf, but I shook my head. “Nothing, thanks.” I dropped into a comfortable, well-worn wingback chair we keep on the shop floor for a husband (or wife) to get off their feet while their partner engages in an orgy of shopping.
The door opened once again, and several men and women came in. They carried bags of equipment. Simmonds directed them to the back. “Reynolds is waiting.”
“I’d tell you not to touch anything, Merry,” Simmonds said to me, “but I assume your prints and DNA are all over this shop.”
“Every single inch, probably.” I thought of my office in particular. They’d not only have to deal with evidence of my presence, but the forensics people would have to sift through mountains of dog hair and buckets of drool.
“We might as well stay here and be comfortable for our interview.” Simmonds smiled at me. It wasn’t easy, but I smiled back. The detective was in her early forties, attractive beneath a stiff, always professional façade. Even in street clothes no one would mistake her for anything but a cop. She had red hair, kept carefully under control, and penetrating green eyes. I’d had reason to deal with Detective Diane Simmonds before, and I found her to be highly efficient. She also didn’t suffer fools. She didn’t take a seat, but leaned casually against a display case.
“Were you at the beach with Charlotte?” I asked, referring to Simmonds’s young daughter.
“Yes. She was excited about Santa having his summer vacation in the very town where she lives.” Simmonds smiled to herself. “I have to agree with her. This is the most amazing town. You people really can’t get enough of Christmas, can you?”
“That’s why we’re called Christmas Town.”
“Look at me, saying ‘you people.’ I like to think that Charlotte and I are Rudolphites now, too.”
“Did she have to leave before she got to speak to Santa?” I asked. “If so, I can arrange for him to pay her a special visit. I do have inside pull, you know.”
She laughed. “Thanks, but no. My mom’s with her and they scarcely noticed me slip away.” The smile and the lines of laughter faded from her face. “You were with Santa on the boat. Tell me why you left so soon after landing.”
“I’m supposed to be handing out candy canes, those ones over there, to the children in the lineup. I forgot them, so I ran back.” My phone buzzed. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
Alan: What’s taking so long?
“Leave it,” Simmonds said. Her voice had completely changed. We were no longer two women chatting about a little girl’s excitement at seeing Santa.
“They would have heard the sirens at the park,” I said. “Can I just tell them I’m okay?
She nodded. I quickly typed: Delayed. Won’t be back for a while. Sorry to Dad. Gotta go.
A cryptic message, and not one that would assuage anyone’s worries as to what was happening, but I didn’t have time to tell the whole story. And part of the story would be worse than nothing at all.
“Can you turn that off now, please,” Simmonds said.
I muted the sound and put the phone away. “I left Jackie to staff the store while I was with Santa. I’m dreadfully worried about her.”
“The alley’s been checked. No sign of her. No signs of a struggle or any injuries, either. Her name’s Jackie O’Reilly, right?”
I nodded.
“She’s well known around town. We’re looking for her. I’ve met her before, but only here, in your store. Would you say she’s trustworthy, Merry?”
“Trustworthy? She’s not likely to strangle a difficult customer, if that’s what you’re asking.” Then again, I thought, but didn’t say, Max wasn’t exactly a customer. Had he finally insulted Jackie so obviously that she noticed? She had, as I well knew, quite the temper. I shoved the thought away.
“Does she usually bring a purse to work?”
“Always.”
“Did you see it when you searched for her?”
I tried to remember. “I don’t think so.”
“Can you describe it?”
“She brings the same one to work most days. I’m pretty sure she had it when she came in this morning. A small black thing with tons of metal hoops and studs. She keeps it in the storage room.”
Simmonds made a quick phone call and asked the person on the other end to have a look for it. Then she said to me, “Tell me what happened from the time you left the park to get these candy canes.”
I did. I told her how I was initially angry at Jackie for leaving the store, then my momentary worry that she’d collapsed in my office. Finding Max, and trying to get the beads off him.
“The door was unlocked when you got here?”
“Yes. I assumed Jackie had popped into the back for a moment. I checked the cash register. All seems present and accounted for, and none of my stock’s missing. Not as far as I can see, anyway, and I keep nothing of any value that’s not out on display.”
Simmonds glanced toward the center table. The rosemary bush that had been snapped up had been replaced by one that had been in my mother’s garden until yesterday evening. This one wasn’t trimmed into a perfect triangle shape of thick greenery, but somewhat lopsided with gaping holes I’d done my best to fill with ornaments. “The string that had been around Mr. Folger’s neck appears to be the same as those on the table.”
“It is. They’re proving to be very popular.” I sucked in a breath.
“What?” Simmonds said.
The strings of wooden beads, painted to look like cranberries, were individually wrapped in a clear plastic bag. The bags had labels with Alan’s logo and a Mrs. Claus’s Treasures price sticker on them. This morning, when I’d dressed the bush, I’d opened one bag and used the contents for decoration.
That one string was gone. I told Simmonds and she nodded grimly.
“You said Mr. Folger and his team planned to come here after closing, for their photo shoot. Any idea why he came earlier? I would have thought they’d be interested in the action down at the beach this afternoon.”
“Not a clue,” I said. Had Max come back hoping to find me here? Did he intend to make another plea for me to go to New York with him? I should have told Detective Simmonds about the relationship between Max and me. But I simply couldn’t get the words out. I didn’t want this to look to her like it might be something personal.
Simmonds lifted one eyebrow. I spoke quickly. “There might be some dissent among the magazine crew. They were squabbling all the time. Minor stuff, but you never know. Oh, you probably should be aware that Max Folger is engaged to Erica Johnstone.”
“Who’s she?” Simmonds asked.
“I’m guessing you don’t follow the celebrity news. Her grandmother, Jennifer Johnstone, owns the magazine Max worked for, and she’s super famous and mega rich. Jennifer is all business and not one for the limelight. Her granddaughter, on the other hand, loves nothing more than the limelight. Jennifer is also a super nice person. Her granddaughter is not.”
“How do you know this mega rich Jennifer is nice?”
Ooops. Oh well, I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for long. “I worked for Jennifer’s Lifestyle until about a year ago.”
She didn’t look surprised. “So you know these people?”
“Some of them.” As we’d talked, a steady stream of uniformed officers and men
and women in plain clothes walked in and out of the shop. Every time the door opened, I could hear voices clamoring to know what was going on. I’d put my phone on vibrate, and it had been shaking as though Santa’s sleigh had been caught in a hurricane over Florida. “A word to the wise, Detective. Erica Johnstone is major celebrity news. There was an incident Thursday night, when she, uh, had a hissy fit at the restaurant across the street.” (No need to tell the good detective what, or rather who, the fit was about.) “Gossip reporters as well as Jennifer fans are already pouring into town.”
For the first time, ever, Simmonds’s calm façade cracked. She groaned. “I. Absolutely. Hate. That.”
The door opened once again, and Candy Campbell came in. Her eyes were wide. “I . . . I . . .” she said.
“Spit it out,” Simmonds snapped.
“She’s here. She wants to come in.”
“Who’s here, and why do I care what she wants?”
This time the door flew open with so much force it hit the wall. Jason Kerr came first, ever-present camera around his neck, followed by Erica Johnstone. Muriel brought up the rear, using her small body to keep the press of onlookers away from Erica.
“Good job on the door, Officer Campbell,” Simmonds said.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Get back outside, and next time you might want to lock the door before leaving it unguarded.”
Candy slunk away.
Simmonds hadn’t taken a seat while we talked, and now she seemed to stretch every vertebra in her body. I swear she gained two inches while I watched. I got out of my chair and ducked behind a display of porcelain, silk, and velvet Santa and Mrs. Claus dolls, where I tried to melt into the walls. “I am Detective Simmonds, Rudolph police. This is a crime scene, and you will have to leave.”