As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles

by Leslie Budewitz

  “What if …” I said. “What if it didn’t happen quite like that? What if Merrily was protecting someone then—and now? Would that change how you feel?”

  She faced me, lips tight, eyes hollow. “Oh, Erin. Just like your mother, aren’t you? Always looking for the bright side. Wanting to fix things.” She gazed back at the snow-covered fields in front of us, the shadows flat and ominous. “Some of us are too broken.”

  “No, Mrs. Thornton—Taya.” I held out a hand. “I can understand you might feel that way, but—”

  She snapped her head toward me. “You don’t understand a thing.”

  I sat back, every bone in my body stiffening. Was she more than a bad mother? Was she a killer?

  As I drove away a few minutes later, I glanced up the hill to the big house, lights twinkling around every window.

  In the Thorntons’ driveway stood a big black pickup.

  Twenty

  One of the joint tasks on the wedding to-do list was to finish writing our marriage vows. We’d pored over dozens of samples online and in the marriage prep materials Anne had given us. Love and honor were easy, and “until death do us part” was a no-brainer. The rest, we were still puzzling out.

  But one thing no spouse could do, I thought as I turned Lou Mary’s car onto the highway and back toward town, was protect the other from grief. Clearly Walt Thornton had tried, and he’d just as clearly failed. When I’d asked Taya if I could do anything for her—call Walt or Holly—she’d simply shaken her head and gone back to rocking.

  The truck had been too far away for a good look, and I hadn’t wanted to venture up the Thorntons’ driveway under Taya’s watchful eye. Later.

  All was well at the Merc, but my tummy was talking tough, so I limped next door to Red’s. Old Ned had my Pellegrino with a lemon wedge waiting before I sat down.

  “Girlie, you gotta stop living so dangerously,” he said, his gruff voice soft with worry. “Why would someone want to run you off the road?”

  “Wish I knew, Ned. Can I get a cheeseburger? And waffle fries?” Dress be darned, I needed comfort food.

  “You bet.” He clipped the order slip to the wire that ran across the bar and sent it flying to the kitchen. “From what I hear, half the town thinks Merrily Thornton is a two-time thief, and half the town thinks they don’t know what to think.”

  “Yeah. It’s crazy.” The evidence Jason had found seemed so damning. But it made no sense. Why steal again after her old friend gave her a second chance?

  It was clear to me now that Merrily Thornton’s biggest sin all those years ago was to violate the family vow to maintain appearances at all costs. From what she’d told me and what Brad had said, I was convinced she’d come back here to repent.

  So who had killed her?

  Ned had run Red’s for decades and knew everybody in town. He held as a matter of faith that anything he told me wasn’t gossip.

  “Walt pops in for a whisky now and then, but he don’t talk much about family. Don’t talk much, period, unlike his wife.”

  “Some couples are like that.” I sipped my Pellegrino and shushed my noisy tummy.

  “They’re funny people, him and Taya. I don’t judge folks by what their kids do, and I don’t hold with turning your back on blood.” Ned rubbed an invisible spot on the counter, and I knew he was thinking of his own son. “Say, I tell you I bought me an RV? Heading south for a few weeks. Not till January—I gotta stick around for some big wedding.” He winked.

  “That’s great, Ned. You can count on J.D.” Ned’s grandson, a burly redhead like all the Redaway men, had joined the family biz last winter and taken to it like the proverbial duck.

  “Yeah, guy I bought it from made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He’s pushing me to buy his truck, to pull it. But I got a perfectly good truck. Sunshine and seventy degrees sounds good, don’t it?”

  Someone selling a truck? Coincidence, for sure. In Northwest Montana, there are pickups and Subarus everywhere. Well, make that one less Subaru.

  “Sure does. I think Adam’s taking me somewhere warm, but he won’t say.” I like winter, and winter sports, but a break would be nice.

  The twinkle in Ned’s eye hinted that he knew Adam’s plan. Before I could ask, the kitchen runner slid my burger and fries in front of me, the hot salty aroma enticing. Ned conjured up a bottle of mustard and put his face back in neutral.

  Ned checked on other patrons while I ate. By the time he got back to me, I was feeling quite human. Mess with blood sugar, and it messes with you.

  “Dang, I’ve missed your fries,” I said. “After the wedding, and this mystery trip, we’re rejoining the pool league. Though we’ll have to find Nick a new partner.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

  I cocked my head. What was he talking about? All last winter, Adam and I had teamed up against Nick and Christine until her death. The Caldwell cousins usually beat us all, though.

  Oh. Last Monday, when I’d seen Kim in this very bar, she’d been waiting for someone but hadn’t said who. As I headed up to Dragonfly for my dress fitting, I’d seen Nick drive into town, looking like a man on a mission. And in the ER—gad, was that only last night?—Nick had been standing behind Kim in the doorway. I’d assumed my mother had called him.

  When I was otherwise occupied, had my brother and my childhood best friend found each other? How had I not noticed? Some investigator I am.

  “Ned, you sly fox.”

  The twinkle returned. If it weren’t for the small matter of an unsolved embezzlement and murder, and my hit-and-run, all would be well.

  ∞

  Lou Mary insisted I rest in the office with my feet up, and I didn’t protest. My ankle was throbbing, my bruised cheekbone ached, and I could feel where the shoulder belt had held me. Thank goodness I always wear it.

  But I am a Murphy girl. I can’t sit still for long. I stared at the timeline and Spreadsheet of Suspicion, wondering what I was missing.

  Greg’s weekend whereabouts could be key. He hadn’t worked Saturday. He and his family had come downtown for the Art Walk, and we’d stood behind them at the tree lighting. He’d been chatting with another couple about the grade school kids’ basketball tournament that weekend. The tournament his son’s team had played in.

  In winter, the Building Supply closes on Sundays. I knew from Wendy that the extended family usually attended church together—part of Reverend Anne’s flock—then gathered at the farmhouse for brunch. Aside from that and the tournament, I had no idea where Greg might have been until Monday morning, when Merrily turned up missing and the cigar box surfaced.

  That box bugged me. I understood keeping a few photos and tokens at work. Since I’d taken over the Merc and claimed the office for myself, a handful of mementos had crept in, taking up precious space on the small desktop and the single bookshelf. But my personal touches were all plainly visible. Why had Merrily kept hers in a box in a drawer?

  Unless she’d wanted them close, but didn’t want them to be seen. Why keep Ashley a secret?

  Everybody who loved me had warned me that all this running around would only make me hurt worse, and they were right. I reached in my pocket for the bottle of arnica pills. Gone.

  I’d emptied out my leather bag before leaving it with April, and now I tore through the pile of junk on my desk. Not there, either. I grabbed my coat from its hook in the hallway and checked the pockets. Nope.

  I slipped out the back door, the quickest route to Bill’s hole-in-the-wall herb shop. Which reminded me of the air leak under the door. If I didn’t find a handyman soon, I’d try replacing the seal myself. I couldn’t make things worse, could I?

  Tracy had cleared a path the width of the snow shovel through the courtyard we’d worked so hard to reclaim. Soon it would be time to plan our outdoor summer events. In retail, you’ve always got to think a couple of seasons ahead.

  I unlatched the gate in the six-foot-high wooden fence and pushed it. It o
pened a few inches, then stopped. I tried a second time, and pain shot through my shoulder. Still no give. I peeked through a knothole and saw the problem: A plow had trucked down the alley, clearing the driving lane but creating a berm of snow that was blocking my gate.

  I was preparing for a good shove, despite the promise of pain, when I heard the back door to the bistro and bakery next door open.

  “You have to tell them,” Wendy said, her voice firm, her words clipped. “Everything. No more secrets.”

  “Not my secret to tell,” Greg replied.

  “If you don’t tell the truth, that Detective What’s-his-name will slam you in jail. You’re worried about the Building Supply. What do you think will happen to it then? And to your family?”

  I eased up on the gate, but the dry, cold wood gave a loud creak. I kept the pressure steady and my ears on alert.

  “Merrily went to prison to keep the secret. I can keep it, too.”

  “Merrily was wrong,” Wendy replied. “And she’s probably dead because of it. You can’t protect other people from their sins forever. There are children involved.”

  The way she said it, something clicked into place. I knew the connection between Greg and Merrily. And so did Wendy.

  “If Holly Muir can stick her arm upside a cow and yank out a stuck calf, she can deal with her own past. If not for her, none of this would have happened.”

  I leaned into the gate, both to keep it from squeaking and to keep my head from snapping off.

  Next door, Greg made an exasperated noise. “You win. But don’t say a word to anyone. Not yet.”

  I stayed put until I heard a truck start up. Though I wanted to peek out to make sure Greg’s passenger door was intact, I didn’t dare. It was clear Greg Taylor had done a lot I hadn’t known about. Even if he said it was for “other people.”

  He had to mean Holly. But why?

  I peered through the knothole to watch the truck head down Back Alley, and when I couldn’t see it anymore, I squeezed out the narrow opening.

  Bill’s clinic and herb shop is a cozy two-room wreck that should have been torn down ages ago, but any replacement would have to meet current county building codes, including setbacks and parking requirements. The result would leave about enough room for a doghouse, so the clinic stayed put.

  The sharp tang of incense greeted me, and the Tibetan bell that hangs over the door announced my presence. Bill stepped out of the back room, closing the door quietly. Tall and slightly stooped, he practices acupuncture, dispenses herbs and homeopathic remedies, and leads herb walks on the Nature Trail above the river. Better for the soul, he says, than practicing law, as he did for years.

  “If you’re here for acupuncture on that ankle,” he said, “you’ll need to wait. I’ve got a case of back pain on my treatment table.”

  “Thanks.” That was a relief. I’m not afraid of needles, exactly, but … well, okay, I’m afraid of needles. Easy for him to say they don’t hurt. “Lost my arnica.”

  While he made up a fresh supply of the remedy, I sat in a time-burnished oak armchair in front of his ancient black lacquered desk, a piece he’d bought from one of his teachers. The conversation in the alley rattled in my head.

  “Bill, when you practiced law, did you ever handle adoptions?”

  “A few. Why?”

  “When an unmarried woman has a baby, does she have to name the father on the birth certificate?”

  “No. Some women have good reason for not identifying the father.” He sat, a small brown vial in his hand. “But if they go to court for child support, they have to prove paternity. Or if they apply for assistance, the state will insist on going after the father for support, if they can.”

  “What if he’s in prison?”

  “Doesn’t mean he lacks assets. He’ll also get notice if there’s ever a step-parent adoption.”

  My assumptions about Merrily Thornton had just gone all cattywampus. Brad Larson had described her as a young women determined to get back on her feet after a big mistake. To find a job as soon as she got out of prison, and a father for her daughter. I’d assumed he’d adopted Ashley. But an adoption, like going on public assistance, would have triggered notice to Cliff Grimes—notice Sally would have found in his papers. Had Merrily feared Cliff’s response? Been determined to keep him from Ashley? Or had she feared that years down the road, Ashley would discover that her biological father was a dirty rotten rat who’d cheated on his wife, stolen from her, and planned to run?

  Now I was more puzzled than ever.

  It all came back to the sisters, didn’t it?

  Whatever Holly Thornton Muir had done, her big sister had loved her very, very much.

  Twenty-One

  Without my phone, I couldn’t tell time. But the clock tower at the library was chiming the hour, and I was late for my appointment at the bank.

  I limped up Front and turned onto Hill. If ice heals a bruise, shouldn’t walking in the cold do the same?

  Apparently not.

  I limped into the bank lobby, stood on the state seal in the middle of the marble floor of the original structure, and scanned the place. Peered through the giant artificial Christmas tree to the glass-walled conference room. Pamela Barber leaned forward, hands on the table, facing an employee and a man and woman I didn’t know, both wearing dark suits and darker expressions.

  My appointment had obviously come at a bad time.

  The employee spotted me and spoke to Pamela. She glanced out, then down at her watch. Which reminded me that I had one, somewhere. She opened the door and I heard her say, “Back in fifteen. Carolyn, pull up all their records. Even the closed accounts. Eagle eyes.”

  Her heels rat-tatted on the marble floor, her suit the same not-quite-navy, not-quite-purple as the circle blooming around my eye.

  “Thank goodness you’re all right.” After a quick, careful embrace, Pamela led the way to her office. “I wish these icy roads weren’t so good for business. And I’m sorry I need to make this quick. Something’s come up.”

  I sat across from her while she scrolled through screens showing the financial info Adam and I had submitted for our remodel loan. That paperwork had included the contract for deed with my mother, so Pamela knew what we made and what we owed.

  She swiveled her chair to face me and folded her hands on top of the desk in a way that telegraphed bad news.

  “I’m sorry, Erin. You’ve got a good credit rating—you both do—but with the debt to your mother and the loan from us, you’re overstretched. A dealer could probably give you financing, but the rates will be higher.”

  “You can’t give me a car loan?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Even for a used car? I don’t need a new one.” I’d never had a new car. I’d also never had trouble borrowing money. We’d gotten a good deal from my mother, but forty acres with an orchard, a house, and a view hadn’t come cheap. And neither had bringing the place into the twenty-first century.

  “I wish I could. You and your family have been good customers for ages, but your debt-to-income ratio is at our limit. A little above it, actually.”

  I caught my lower lip in my teeth and blinked back tears of disappointment. Working retail, even when you’re your own boss, doesn’t bring in the big bucks. Neither did Adam’s job. The price of doing what we love.

  But that wasn’t Pamela’s fault, and I wasn’t going to let it interfere with finding out the truth about Merrily.

  “Nice to see you’ve got your office back,” I said, fighting to regain control over my emotions. It was only a car and money, after all. We’d figure out something. “And I hear your staff is in the clear. Not that I had any doubt. But you’re still stressed.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “You’ve talked with your brother-in-law. We’re following up on what he found.”

  My brow furrowed. “False invoices. Oh. She set up automatic payments to accounts for vendors who didn’t actually exist. But
she wouldn’t have set up those accounts here, would she?”

  “The accounts receiving the funds aren’t in our system. We can tell by the numbers. But we’ve got to analyze all disbursements made from the Building Supply’s accounts and weed out the improper payments. That means gathering our internal documentation, then calling in the regulators.” Pamela caught one lip between her teeth, the fuchsia lipstick that matched her silk blouse nearly worn off. “I hate calling the regulators.”

  “Surely they can’t blame you. Or the bank. You’re not responsible for what account holders do.”

  “In some cases, we are,” she said. “Regulators are perfectly nice people, trained to question every detail. I just don’t like screw-ups on my watch.”

  Which was one reason I liked her so much. Her smile as we parted looked as forced as mine felt, and I bundled up to head back outside.

  At the corner of Hill and Front, I detoured into Dragonfly Dry Goods. The amazing collection of fabric and yarn is a magnet for a certain kind of shopper, along with Kitchenalia, Food for Thought Bookstore, and if I’m not being modest, the Merc. I have no needlework skills—Chiara got all the artistic talent in the family—but the colors and soft pettable yarns do tempt me.

  “You got my message,” Kathy said. “I wasn’t sure it was going through—it cut me off short.”

  I hadn’t gotten her message, but I didn’t bother trying to explain being phoneless in the modern world.

  “Your wrap is finished,” she said, sounding satisfied. “That yarn has an incredible halo. Come see.” She gestured and I followed her into the workroom where my dress hung on a form. Around its shoulders lay a swath of red angora, softer and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.

  My sister the artist would know exactly what to call that color red.

  I called it perfect.

  And burst into tears.

  No way would Kathy let me get tear-snot on a custom-made dress and hand-knit shawl, though. She held out a box of tissues. I sat and sniffed, aware that I was over-reacting, the emotion of the accident finally catching up with me.