by Vicki Delany
Erica nodded.
“Sharp-eyed Muriel had noticed that Jason was acting almost obsessively around Erica. Muriel overheard Max and Jason arguing on Friday night in the Yuletide gardens, when Max confronted Jason about hiding in the bushes and taking photos of Erica. Max threatened to fire Jason. When Max died, she put two and two together, came up with four, and confronted Jason. Blackmailed him, if you will. He agreed to pay her off and arranged to hand over a considerable sum of money in the gardens once everyone had left after the Monday-night photo shoot.
Muriel was crafty, but not very smart. Greed did her in.
“Exactly,” Simmonds said. “Jason’s defense is that she deserved what she got. What else was he supposed to do but get rid of her?”
“Gee, Merry,” Jackie said. “If I’d been at the store when Max and Jason came in, I would have been killed. Good thing I’d gone out.”
You might be killed yet . . . I began typing. Alan took the phone out of my hands and erased the line.
My mom stood up and smoothed her skirt. “As tragic as all that is, my daughter needs to rest. Time for everyone to be leaving.” She made shooing gestures. A stampede for the door did not begin.
“What I want to know . . .” Mark said.
Simmonds’s phone buzzed and she checked the display. “Mr. Claymore is at the police station and threatening to have me fired if I don’t produce you, Erica.”
Erica took out her own phone. “Silly me, I accidentally switched it off after I sent a text to Grandma telling her not to worry about me.”
“You can . . .” I began. Alan tapped my phone to remind me to type, not speak. Spend the night here if you want. The couch pulls out to make a bed.
Erica smiled at me. “That would be nice, but I’d better go. If James loses track of me, Grandma’ll fire him. Another time?”
I nodded. Then I typed a message for Alan only. Get rid of them all. Erica last.
He got to his feet. “You all heard Mrs. Wilkinson. Time to go. Besides, we’ve run out of drinks.”
Vicky gave me a hug. “We’ll communicate by smoke signals tomorrow.”
“Chicken soup,” Mark said. “I’ll send you my special secret recipe. Guaranteed to work.”
“Night, Merry,” Russ said. “Take care, Erica. If you’re staying in town, let me know and we can go out for a drink or something.” He gave her a smile. “It would be nice to catch up.”
“It would,” she said. “But I don’t think I’ll be staying.”
“Let me walk you to your car, Detective,” he said. “Any word yet on unsolved cases from other places Jason Kerr worked?”
“No comment.”
“Do you think she’ll really check my phone records?” Mrs. D’Angelo said.
“Oh yes,” Dad replied. “They call it interfering with a police investigation. It can result in a stiff fine as well as a considerable jail sentence. You’d better not chance it, Mable.”
“I’m always one to do my civic duty. You know me, Noel.”
“I guess that means the shoot’s canceled,” Willow said. “At least until we can find another photographer. I’ll call Amber and let her know.”
“I coulda been killed,” Jackie said. “I’m thinking of applying for danger pay, Merry.”
Just try it. Alan did not read my words aloud.
“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Decker, dear,” Mom said. “All the top singers go to him. He’s terribly busy, but he’ll fit me in.” She brushed my cheek.
One question, Dad, I typed, and Alan said, “Hold up a minute, Noel, Merry wants to ask you something.”
I thought back to Monday evening, in the shop at closing time. I’d been about to rearrange the angel choir and had objected to Dad putting the vase of glass balls so close to the door. Dad told me to leave things where they were.
The angels. The big balls. How did you . . . ?
Alan and I exchanged a glance. I erased the line with a single tap on the screen. Some things are better not understood.
Dad gave me a grin and followed my mother out.
Erica, Alan, and I were left. Released from what I could only assume was a magic spell Diane Simmonds laid on him, Mattie leapt to his feet and charged through the apartment, checking every inch in case anyone had dropped a crumb or moved one of his toys.
I took my car keys off the hook by the door and handed them to Alan.
“She’s telling me to take you to the inn,” Alan said. “Is that where you want to go?”
“Yes. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do tonight. I’ll phone James and tell him I’m okay and he can call the attack dogs off. Thank you, Merry. Thank you for everything.”
“You saved me. I didn’t . . .”
She drew me into a hug and whispered something in my ear. It was so low I barely caught it, but I think she said, “Now I know why Max loved you so much more than he loved me.” She pulled away and gave me a smile. “Sounds like your mom’ll get your throat all sorted. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She left the apartment. Alan leaned over and gave me a quick but deep kiss. “Thanks . . . care . . . her,” I said.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, Merry.” He grinned. “I’ll talk. You can make hand gestures. Night, Mattie.”
Mattie woofed. I shut the door.
Chapter 17
I slept surprisingly well, although when I looked in the mirror the next morning, I let out a strangled gasp of dismay.
I hadn’t known skin could turn those colors.
I wrapped a heavy scarf around my neck to keep it warm and then made coffee and took Mattie into the yard. I sat at the picnic table, sipped my coffee, and watched him play. I didn’t phone Simmonds to ask if I could open the shop. Today was a day to stay in my pajamas, play with my dog, and spend time by myself. I had a new mystery novel waiting until I had the time to dive into it. I knew that as soon as I got back to work, everyone in town would come in demanding to know what had happened.
My phone buzzed. I had no intention of talking to anyone today. Not that I was capable of talking, in any event. When I’d tried to speak to my reflection in the mirror, all that I’d managed was a strangled squawk. I glanced at the display.
My granddaughter says you are unable to speak. Is that correct? J.
Jennifer Johnstone.
I texted back: Still a bit sore.
Jennifer: I will call. You don’t have to talk if unable.
Me: Okay.
The phone rang. “Uh,” I said.
“Good morning, Merry,” the deep husky voice of the most famous woman in American design said. “I heard you had quite the exciting night.”
“Uh,” I said.
“Erica and I talked for a long time last night. We’ve decided that she’s not entirely suited to management of the magazine. I’ve been contemplating for some time beginning a charitable foundation in honor of the memory of my daughter Karen, Erica’s mother. The foundation will raise money to help with the education of motherless, underprivileged girls in this country and around the world.”
“Good,” I said.
“Erica will be in charge of the foundation, with me serving as the figurehead. I think she’ll be better suited to working with well-heeled donors in pursuit of a good cause than managing a fractious, opinionated, highly talented staff.”
I nodded. Realizing that even Jennifer Johnstone couldn’t telepathically understand me, I grunted, “Goo . . .”
“As the magazine needs reorganization, top to bottom, I want you to come back, Merry.”
“I . . .”
“Hear me out. I need you. If I’m going to get the best editor in chief I can find, I need to be able to offer him or her the best staff possible. I want you as chief editorial director of style.”
“Uh . . .”
“A salary to match, of course.”
“N . . .”
“You didn’t save my granddaughter’s life physically, Merry. But you saved her in other ways. Erica means everything in the world to me. She’s been indulged for too long, and last night we both came to realize that. Thank heavens it wasn’t too late. Will you come back to me, Merry?”
“Text,” I managed to say.
She hung up.
Me: Thank you so much, Jennifer. I’d love to work for you again, but I’ve moved on. I have my life here, in Rudolph, and it’s where I’m happy.
Jennifer: If you change your mind . . .
Me: I won’t. Love to Erica.
Jennifer: Love to you!
High over my head, a squirrel sat in the big branch of a maple, laughing at Mattie, who hadn’t yet realized he couldn’t jump sixty feet in the air.
I studied my phone. And then I started another text.
Me: Breakfast at my place?
Alan: You’re on.
Me: You’ll have to stop at the bakery first.
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