As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles

by Leslie Budewitz

  Greg rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped beneath his chin, the knuckles white. A distant look clouded his dark eyes.

  The cash had lain on top of a small framed photo of a striking teenage brunette sitting on a sandstone rock. Gold letters and a year slashed across one corner marked it a senior portrait.

  “Mind if I look?” I said, and at Greg’s grunt of approval, I reached for the photo. Beneath it lay a few small trinkets and a plain white envelope, the kind birthday cards come in. The envelope was blank. I slid out the contents. Three shots of the same girl—one in a strapless gown, one in her soccer uniform, and the third cradling a Corgi, the happiest-looking of dogs. I flipped them over. Ashley, the back said, with a date, each in the same handwriting. A mother’s handwriting.

  The final picture was of Merrily with her parents and sister. No date, but I guessed she’d been about to finish high school, twenty years ago. I’d been in junior high, and remembered coveting a pair of my sister’s sandals similar to the ones Merrily wore. Taya, her pixie-cut hair still blond, sat between the two blond girls on an antique oak bench, Walt behind them, beaming. Everyone was beaming.

  A “before” picture.

  Cary finished his report and hung up the phone.

  “You checked the deposit, right?” Greg flung the words at the bookkeeper. “It’s your job to verify the deposit.”

  “Hey.” Cary took a step back, hands in the air. “I did my job. What she did afterwards isn’t my fault.”

  “Isn’t it unusual to make a deposit on Saturday?” I said. “Especially in winter, when the bank isn’t open? We make ours on Monday.” The bank was my next stop.

  Greg looked at Cary, who shrugged one shoulder. “It was easier to do it that way when I started—I don’t remember why—and we just kept doing it like that.”

  I understood. In my years at SavClub, I’d learned the value of regularly reviewing every system, especially the routines we follow without knowing why. But small businesses typically don’t make that kind of review a priority. They think they don’t have time. I aimed to not fall into that trap at the Merc.

  At a knock on the doorframe, we turned our heads. The redheaded cashier—what was her name?—announced that the sheriff was here.

  It wasn’t actually the sheriff. Today’s representatives were Chief Detective Kim Caldwell and the new guy, Detective Oliver Bello.

  “Missing employee, missing money,” Bello said after introductions were complete and Greg had summarized the problem. “Seems clear enough.”

  “But why leave the money behind?” I said.

  “Why are you here, Erin?” Kim asked.

  “Weather stripping,” I said, as if that explained everything. When her expression made clear that it explained nothing, I turned to Greg. “Not sure if I need a whole new thingy, or some of that stuff you press into place.” I tried not to be too obvious about wanting a moment alone with him, but he got the message.

  “Easier to show you than call an employee. Cary, can you show the detective what we found?”

  A minute later, Greg and I stood in an aisle with all the emergency insulation a girl could want. Overhead, the sound system played Christmas carols.

  “Try these and bring back what you don’t need.” He put a black rubber door sweep and a bag of sticky-backed foam rubber strips into my hands, then his face crumpled. “Erin, this can’t be happening. She can’t …”

  “I know. I don’t want to believe it, either. But it sure looks like you have a thief, and it sure looks like it’s Merrily.” Saying so hurt my gut, despite the evidence.

  Then I remembered how Merrily’s face had lit up when she talked about Ashley, and I frowned. Odd enough to leave cash behind, but pictures …

  Greg let out a long sigh, fraught with fear and shame. Humans. Some of us are quick to blame others for anything that goes wrong, and some of us are slow. Others would rather blame themselves.

  “I never should have hired her,” he said. “Profits have been down lately. Now I know why.”

  “You wanted to give her a hand.”

  “I keep thinking she’ll come walking in the door,” he said, “and we’ll realize this was all just a mistake.”

  But meanwhile, he had two detectives waiting. That made my leaky door and sagging soffit seem like a piece of cake.

  Four

  Most Mondays I use the drive-through bank window, but curiosity got the better of me, so I parked the Subaru at the Jewel Bay Bank and Trust and went inside. Though space needs had forced headquarters to move to Pondera years ago, the local branch was thriving, in a 1910 sandstone structure much like Murphy’s Mercantile. A tasteful addition had created the drive-through and offices with a view of the bay.

  I handed my bank bag to the teller and glanced around while she added up my deposit. The sharp chemical-lemon scent of furniture polish stung my nostrils. Wide bands of gauzy silver and gold ribbon had been draped above the tellers’ stations, catching glints from the big milk glass lights that hung from the tin-paneled ceiling. Greenery accented with more ribbon and clusters of pine cones hung below the counters and in the etched glass windows of the doors. In Seattle, where I used to live, holiday decor would have included an oversized menorah or a string of dreidel lights, but Hanukkah touches are rare here. I made a mental note to add one or two to the Merc’s windows.

  “Here you go, Erin.” The teller handed me my cash bag, the deposit slips inside. “All present and accounted for.”

  On my way out, I dragged my feet past the manager’s windowed office. A man I didn’t know sat in the chair, eyes on the screen, fingers racing over an adding machine.

  Thwack! Someone smacked into me, and I staggered sideways. My accidental assailant and I grabbed each other, steadying ourselves.

  “Pamela!” I said. Pamela Barber and I had met a few months earlier, at the bank’s Pondera branch. A shapely woman of about fifty, she wore a pencil skirt and a jacket with a stylish peplum.

  “Erin. I am so sorry,” she said. “Totally my fault—not watching where I was going.”

  “It’s okay.” I followed her gaze to her office. The only holiday decor was a bowl of peppermints and a fading photo of three young children with Santa. “I heard you moved down here. I guess this isn’t the best day to congratulate you on the promotion. Is something wrong?”

  “Not two weeks on the job, and I have to call in an auditor.”

  “Let me guess. I just came from the Building Supply. Their deposit came up short, and you have to make sure the problem isn’t on your end.”

  Her mouth tightened, confirming my suspicion. “We’re called the Bank and Trust, but trust is tricky sometimes.”

  “Truth to that,” I said.

  A few minutes later, I parked behind the Merc and carried my building supplies inside. The door sweep I could probably handle, but not the roof. I could call the contractor who did our kitchen remodel, but we’d have to wait weeks when all we needed was a piece of plywood cut and screwed into place.

  Thinking about the door sweep reminded me of the regretful thief. What had made her change her mind? Jewel Bay looks prosperous, but there are pockets of poverty and need that surprise even the natives, like me.

  I dumped my load and headed next door to brief Wendy. And to re-caffeinate—she and her baristas buzz the best espresso in town.

  “Erin, it’s terrible!” Wendy said the moment I opened the pine green door. “Merrily’s missing and so is part of the bank deposit.” Wendy shares her brother Greg’s dark hair and eyes and intense features, though on her the effect was leavened by her uniform of brightly colored cotton pants and cherry-red rubber clogs. Today, a streak of raspberry jam marred her white chef’s jacket.

  She isn’t chatty, but I’ve acquired a reputation for sleuthing since returning home. Talk spreads through a small town like flames through a forest in August. And half the town stops by the bakery every day. So she shares what she hears with me.

  If it weren’t
for Merrily’s history, people would assume she was sick or had car trouble. They’d think she got stuck in a snow bank—not that she took off for Vegas.

  It didn’t make sense. Why steal the cash, then leave it behind?

  And the photos she’d tucked away so carefully.

  Forget it, Erin. None of your business. My tummy growled. Surely I could eat one almond croissant without wrecking the fit of my wedding dress.

  “I know—I saw Greg,” I said. “He’s still in shock. But I’m sure she’ll turn up, and that there’s a simple explanation.”

  Wendy looked doubtful. “I hope so. For his sake, and her parents.’”

  Like salons and museums, the Thorntons never open their shop on Mondays, even in the season, sparing me the dilemma of whether to stop in and warn them of the coming gossip storm, or pretend I didn’t know a thing. Which I didn’t, not really, thank goodness.

  I blew Wendy a thank-you kiss.

  Back in the Merc, I huddled in my tiny office under the eaves, like a hobbit anticipating second breakfast. I took the first delicious, hot sip, and the first crunchy-sweet bite.

  Heaven.

  And then I dove into paperwork, posting sales and cutting vendor checks. Our business model is a hybrid of standard retail and consignment—we buy some products outright, like Rainbow Lake Garden’s fresh produce, sell others on a percentage, like Luci’s soaps and Monte Verde wine, and produce a few ourselves, like Fresca’s pastas and sauces and our coffee, tea, and chai. All our food is grown or prepared in Montana, and we insist on high-quality, natural ingredients. Organic when possible. Real food, sustainably grown.

  After all, if it’s made in Montana, it must be good.

  Nick had sent a text. WHAT’S UP? I SHOULD BE BACK IN TOWN IN A DAY OR TWO.

  BLDG NEEDS U! I texted back. Technically, Mom owns the building and the business, but she says she holds it in trust for the three of us and expects Nick to do his part with the upkeep when he can.

  I raced through the rest of the paperwork before going downstairs to spell Lou Mary. Unlike Tracy, who runs home midday to check on her dog, Lou Mary often eats lunch at the counter, especially if my mother or one of the other vendors is working in our commercial kitchen, so she can visit and observe. Today, though, she stepped out to meet a friend.

  Fresca had come in while I was out, and was finishing up a batch of our newest line—salad dressings in both ready-to-pour reusable bottles and make-your-own packets. I filled her in on the news from the Building Supply.

  “Let’s hope it’s all a simple mistake, or a misunderstanding,” she said, then got back to work.

  I unpacked a box of soup mixes from a new vendor, breathing in a hint of thyme, and found a place for them on the dry goods shelf. We’d already tried each variety—product testing is part of the job—and I expected them to be a popular winter item.

  As I worked, I thought about the investigation, and the changes in the sheriff’s office. Kim had brought Detective Bello around a few months ago after he’d been hired, introducing him to prominent players in town. I hadn’t seen him since, until this morning. Jewel Bay isn’t incorporated, so as head of the Village Merchants’ Association, some folks refer to me as the mayor. I defer that honor to Ned Redaway, proprietor and namesake of Red’s Bar, an institution nearly as old as the Merc. Bello seemed nice enough, but I’d learned to be wary of newcomers. Too often they blast in, charmed and charming, then convince themselves they understand the town because folks are open and friendly. Or they try to change it to make it like the place they left.

  Bello had irked me this morning, with his know it all, seen it all expression. I couldn’t blame him for assuming Merrily had disappeared with the money—I feared as much, and Kim must have told him about Merrily’s conviction. But I felt sure there was more going on, starting with Merrily missing the cookie exchange yesterday.

  I’d just finished with the soup when Lou Mary burst in the front door, shucking her camel hair coat as she surged past me. “So sorry I’m late.”

  Outside, the village clock struck twelve thirty. Lou Mary was many things, but late wasn’t one of them.

  She hung up her coat. “Erin, have you heard what they’re saying about Merrily Thornton? That sweet girl.”

  Typical of Lou Mary to call a woman a hair shy of forty a girl, but from her, it sounded like a compliment.

  “Rumor is she absconded with the Building Supply’s bank deposit,” she continued. “Picking up where she left off.”

  “That sounds like Sally talking,” Fresca said. “But until we know what’s actually happened, don’t you think we owe Merrily and her family the benefit of the doubt?”

  A deep flush bloomed on Lou Mary’s cheeks. It wasn’t like my mother to chide a woman her own age—she saves that for me.

  “Francesca”—Lou Mary always calls my mother by her full name—“I’ve cautioned Sally against bitterness, as I know you have. And against idle talk. But Merrily’s reappearance has reopened an old wound. Let her lick it a bit among friends, as long as she doesn’t make a public fuss.”

  I watched, fascinated, as these two wise women, so very different but filled with mutual respect, negotiated their approach to the difficult woman across the street.

  “Just a bit,” my mother conceded. “Easier to nurse a grudge against Merrily, I suppose, than to believe her own husband would steal from her, especially when they had a child together. But I never thought an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl could have planned all that.” She untied her holly print apron and hung it on a hook.

  “Sally won’t be the only one who thinks Greg Taylor is getting what he deserved, trusting Merrily the way he did,” I said.

  “Better to be too trusting than too suspicious,” my mother replied.

  “And better yet to be busy,” I said as the front door opened and a gaggle of women chattered in, fresh from lunch and ready to shop.

  I love gaggles of women at Christmas. Helping them kept my mind off Merrily Thornton and my to-do list. What was I thinking, planning a Christmas wedding? And meeting Adam’s family for the first time to boot?

  “Your window displays are so cute,” one of the shoppers told me. “The train chugging through the snow to reach the village.”

  “They haven’t found that woman yet,” another said, a jar of jam in each hand. “Huckleberry or cherry?”

  “Try one of each,” I said, then, fearing I knew the answer, “What woman?”

  “The one at the hardware store who they think took off with the deposit.”

  I worked the back of my neck with my fingers. Word was spreading fast. The shop line rang, and a moment later, Lou Mary handed me the phone.

  “Erin,” said a tense, male voice. “It’s Greg Taylor. I need your help.”

  “Why? What? What’s happened?”

  “I—I went searching. I couldn’t believe—I had to find her.”

  Something in his tone raised an alarm in my brain.

  “Where are you?”

  “Rolling River Farm.” The Thorntons’ place. “In the schoolhouse. Erin, she’s here. And I think she’s dead.”

  Five

  You’ve got to come,” Greg pleaded. “The sheriff is on the way, but I don’t want to deal with this alone.”

  I grabbed my coat and keys, made sure Lou Mary didn’t mind handling the shop floor alone, and dashed out. A few minutes later, I turned the Subaru off the highway onto the frontage road leading to Rolling River Farm.

  The main house on the Thorntons’ place, a large white pseudo-Colonial, dates back to another of Jewel Bay’s founding families, though the last survivor had sold to Walt and Taya thirty years ago. It came with a majestic barn, still in use, a bunkhouse, and other outbuildings. The Thorntons moved an abandoned one-room country schoolhouse onto the property and reclaimed it, complete with old-fashioned desks, a shelf of early readers, and a vintage wood stove. Before Walt retired from the timber business and they opened the shop downtown, they ran a hol
iday antiques and crafts fair in the schoolhouse.

  A classic design, red with white trim, it sits south of the barn, several hundred feet from the house. Giant twin spruces flank it, and the woods lap at the back door.

  Out front sat Greg’s pickup and an older tan Taurus I presumed was Merrily’s. I parked beside the truck.

  As I got out, the sight of flashing lights at the corner up by the highway caught my eye, and I sprinted to the schoolhouse porch where Greg waited. His flannel-lined navy jacket hung open, his head bare. His gloveless hands kept going to his face. He breathed out heavily through his open mouth, shaking his head.

  “I can’t believe it. Who would do this?”

  I moved past him to the threshold but didn’t go in. Didn’t need to. Through the open door I could see Merrily Thornton on her back on the pine plank floor, one bare hand outstretched, the other flung across her body. Around her neck wound a string of Christmas lights. Her wide, blank eyes stared at nothing. The bluish tint to her skin contrasted with her puffy red coat. A couple of feet away lay one red-and-

  black plaid glove.

  My own gloved hands flew to my chest, crossing as if in prayer. After all she’d been through, to come home and die.

  Questions flooded my brain. How long had she been dead? Why had she come here, to her parents’ place?

  Who had killed her?

  Tires crunched on the snow. An ambulance, followed by two marked sheriff’s vehicles, Kim in one, Bello in the other. On TV, emergency services and patrol deputies usually show up first, detectives later. But around here there are too few officers covering too much territory, so whoever’s closest responds.

  Beside me, Greg’s face went ashen, his eyes unfocused. “No one will ever trust me again.”

  I was puzzled. Wasn’t the problem not his trustworthiness, but his trust in Merrily?

  Bello headed straight for us while Kim circled the building. Though detectives don’t wear uniforms, they both wore black suits and long wool coats.