by Vicki Delany
It had been here, for sure, before Mom and her friends came in. The woman who bought earrings and table linens had admired it, but she’d not bought it. I thought back. Yes, she’d definitely returned it to the display rack. It cost more than she wanted to spend.
If Jackie noticed the necklace was missing after Mom and I left for lunch, then it had to have been taken while Mom’s friends were in the shop. It didn’t have to be one of them, though. Other people had been in. Some had bought, and some had not.
I hoped, for my mother’s sake, one of her friends had not been the thief.
Chapter 3
“When I said I wanted to watch a bad movie,” Vicky Casey said, “I meant bad like bad as in junk fare, not bad as in horrible.”
“I agree. Do you want me to turn it off?”
“Yeah. I don’t care what happens at the end. I only hope they all end up dead.”
I switched the TV off. A pizza box, empty, and two plates, also empty, sat on the coffee table beside two wineglasses, not empty. Mattie snoozed on the floor. Vicky and I picked up our glasses and settled back into the couch. Her aging golden Lab, Sandbanks, rested his chin on her knee, and she stroked his nose absentmindedly.
“Mom and her gang are having dinner at the Yuletide tonight,” I said.
“I hope Grace told Mark to take care of them.”
“Mom would have made sure of that.”
Grace and her husband, Jack, were the owners of the Yuletide Inn, the nicest place in Rudolph. The restaurant was one of the best in this part of the country, largely due to the presence of Chef Mark Grosse, Vicky’s boyfriend.
“It’s nice that your mom and her college friends are still in touch with each other after all these years,” she said.
“I don’t know about that. I got the sense Mom’s thinking this weekend was a serious mistake.”
“Why?”
“They bicker, all the time.”
“We bicker,” Vicky said. “That’s what friends do.”
“But we don’t try to be mean. They are mean. Not all of them, and not to everyone, but there’s an enormous amount of tension there.”
“They’re a mismatched bunch, all right,” Vicky said. “Did you see the diamonds on the fingers of the one in the Tom Ford sunglasses?”
“They could see those diamonds from space. That was Constance. She has money, family money by the way she was talking, and she wants everyone to know it. She pretends to be generous, but she uses her money as a way to put other people in their place. That’s my impression, anyway. It was also my impression that her fake generosity didn’t go down well with Ruth, the one in the ripped jeans and old coat, the one from Rochester.”
“I recognized the tall one,” Vicky said.
“You mean Genevieve? Have you met her before?”
“Not met, but I saw her in a movie, I think. I don’t quite remember which one. Might have been something on TV.”
“She has the look,” I said. “Bone thin, heavy makeup, maybe a facelift, trying to look a lot younger than she is.”
“That’s a losing battle.” Vicky pushed a lock of long orange hair out of her face, showing the gingerbread cookie tattoo on her right wrist. The rest of her hair was deep black and cut almost to the scalp. The orange color was in honor of Thanksgiving and the fall. Most of the time it was purple. She was a good six inches taller than me, and more pounds lighter than I cared to think. Which always seemed very unfair, considering she baked delicious bread, cookies, and pies for a living. And I did not.
“Genevieve’s probably an actor,” I said. “Mom went to NYU Steinhardt, to study opera. That’s very much a school for the dramatic arts, although they have a program of academic undergrad degrees, too. The group roomed together in their freshmen year, so I guess it was like a bonding experience. They stayed friends the rest of the time they were in college, but I don’t think they’ve seen each other all that much since. This is the fortieth anniversary of them meeting, so they wanted to do something to mark it. Everyone wasn’t free until this weekend, and because Dad had made plans for his fishing trip, Mom invited them here. I hope she’s not regretting it too much.”
“It’s only a weekend. Regret or no, they’ll be gone soon.”
“True. Do you have much trouble with shoplifting?”
Her big blue eyes opened wide. “That’s an abrupt change of subject. Why are you asking me that?”
“Maybe it’s not entirely a change of subject. I had something lifted today. One of Crystal’s necklaces. I hate to think it, but it happened when Mom and her friends were in the shop. It might not have been them. Other people were in at that time, too.”
Vicky took a sip of her wine. “We don’t have much shoplifting, because I don’t have a lot of items for sale, and people have to pay for their food and drink before they get it. But it happens on occasion. Like today. When we were cleaning up after closing, Marjorie noticed that the last jar of red-pepper jelly was gone, but it hadn’t been rung up on the cash register. And Marjorie can be trusted to know exactly how much of that jelly we have in stock because she makes it. Coincidence? Maybe not.”
I thought back to our lunch at the bakery. Some of the women had visited the restroom; some had browsed the items on display. I hadn’t paid any attention to who had been where. I’d left while they were finishing their drinks and making plans for the remainder of the day.
“Are you going to tell your mom what you’re thinking?” Vicky asked.
“That one of her college friends might be a thief? No, I’m not. But if they come into the shop again, I’ll be on high alert.”
“I’ll tell Marjorie and the rest of the front-room staff there’ve been some incidents in town, so they should keep an eye out. Let’s change the subject. How’s Alan?”
“Well, I think.”
Vicky wiggled her eyebrows over her glass. “You think?”
“I haven’t seen much of Alan lately. He’s incredibly busy at this time of year. All those toys and decorations don’t make themselves, you know.” Alan was a craftsman; he created wondrous things out of wood with his own hands. He also played the role of Santa’s head toymaker at our town’s Christmas festivities.
Bored with the conversation, Sandbanks wandered off to see if he could find something tasty in the kitchen. Mattie twitched in his sleep.
Vicky eyed me. “I’m busy. Mark’s busy. But we manage to find time to spend together. Relationships need nurturing if they’re going to thrive, Merry.”
I shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of my wine. I liked Alan. Alan liked me. So why was I reluctant to commit? I’d been engaged once, and it most definitely had not ended well. It had ended a second time, much worse, last July, when my ex-fiancé had been murdered in my own store while everyone was down at the lakeside park enjoying the Santa Claus boat parade.
“You obviously don’t want to talk about it, and that’s fine,” Vicky said. “I should be off anyway. We’ve started the Thanksgiving baking, and I’ll be dreaming of nothing but apple and pumpkin pie until Thursday.”
I was horrified. “Apple and pumpkin? That sounds awful.”
She grinned at me. “Apple pies and pumpkin pies. Plus a lesser number of blueberry, some cherry, lots of pecan. And a surprising amount of turkey potpies.”
“People eat turkey in a pie for Thanksgiving? Isn’t that sacrilege?”
“To you and me perhaps. A lot of my customers want to pretend they’ve made the entire dinner themselves. If you were inclined to a life of crime you could make a good living taking pictures of people who sneak into the bakery the day before Thanksgiving and blackmailing them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever close the shop.”
Vicky got to her feet, calling for Sandbanks, and Mattie started awake. I got the leash from the hook by the door, and Mattie and I went downstairs with Vicky
and Sandbanks to walk them part of the way home.
As we parted at the street corner, Vicky said, “Take some advice from me, Merry.”
“Don’t I always?” I said.
“As if. Don’t let things with Alan die because another man done you wrong.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. Alan’s a good guy. A great guy. Whether you’re busy or not, you have to make time for each other. He’s worth it. Good night.”
I watched Vicky and Sandbanks slip into the shadows between the streetlights. Mattie sniffed the ground beneath a bush.
* * *
* * *
Vicky was right—she usually was—and I knew it. When I got home, I changed into my flannel pajamas, made a mug of hot chocolate, and curled up on the couch. When I was settled and comfortable, I made a phone call.
“Good evening, Merry,” said Alan’s voice, as deep and rich as the chocolate in my cup.
“Hi. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Never too late. I’m still in the workshop.”
“I was thinking about you tonight.”
“What a coincidence,” he said. “I was thinking about you, too.”
Chapter 4
“How was dinner at the Yuletide?” I asked my mother the following morning.
“The food was excellent, as it always is, and Mark came out of the kitchen to ask if we’d enjoyed our dinner, which was lovely of him.”
“But?”
She sighed. “The mood was tense all evening. Very tense.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It wasn’t. Everyone tried to be on their best behavior, but some people can’t stop making snide remarks, and some people can’t help replying in kind. I suspect, Merry, that I’ve been looking back at our college years through rose-tinted glasses. The only thing the six of us had in common even then was sharing a dorm and fear of being alone in the big city. We were all in some sort of performing arts program but with different specialties. Constance had plenty of money to spend, and the rest of us didn’t, so she used her money to make friends. Genevieve was ruthlessly ambitious, but Barbara didn’t take her courses all that seriously. Even then she was a New York City activist. Karla was a corn-fed Minnesota girl, and Ruth came from a hardscrabble Upstate New York family and was at college on scholarship. There’s a reason we all haven’t been together since those days. I must have forgotten that. I’m being reminded now.”
Mattie put his big head in her lap, and she stroked his soft ears automatically.
I gave her a smile. “Only a day and a half left. They’re going home tomorrow, right?”
“Sadly, no. They’ll be here until Monday lunchtime.”
We were in the back room of Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. Jackie was watching the storefront, and when Mom came in, I’d been catching up on paperwork during the morning lull. The friends, she told me, were doing their own thing for the remainder of the day. Constance and Genevieve were shopping in town, Barbara had gone for a hike in the woods, Ruth had stayed behind saying she wanted to read, and Karla hadn’t emerged from her room since breakfast.
“What’s the plan for tonight?” I asked.
“I’m keeping it light, casual, and most of all, cheap, and ordering in Chinese food. Do you want to come?”
“After you made the company sound so appealing? No, thank you. Anyway, I can’t. I’m having dinner with Alan.” He and I had talked for a long time last night and arranged a date for tonight.
“Come tomorrow then. We’re having potluck. It was Ruth’s idea, to save me having to cook, she said, but I suspect the real reason is she’s afraid someone will suggest we go out to dinner again, and she can’t afford it. It’s difficult trying to manage activities for friends who are at dramatically different income levels. I remember the time I was performing at the Royal Opera in La traviata, or was it Madama Butterfly? And one of the women in the chorus . . .”
I knew from years of experience to nip Mom’s stroll down memory lane in the bud mighty fast or we’d never get back on topic. “Potluck? Isn’t that hard for people from out of town?”
“We’ll manage fine. My kitchen is big enough and fully equipped, and I’ll make an expedition out of our grocery shopping trip. I have a chicken casserole in the freezer, and the others can make—or buy—whatever they like. The best potlucks, I’ve found, are always impromptu.”
“It might be fun.”
“I hope so. We’re meeting this afternoon at three to hit the markets in town to do our grocery shopping. Constance wasn’t entirely pleased at the idea, but I suggested she buy something ready-made if she’d prefer. Constance wanted to go out to eat again tomorrow, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“But?” I prompted.
“I paid for last night’s dinner. The entire bill.”
“That must have cost a lot.”
“It did. Constance and Genevieve have not only heavy hands on the wine bottle but expensive tastes. Don’t tell your father. I’ll have to sneak that credit card bill around him somehow. I told Grace not to present us with a check and I’d cover it. I felt that I had to do it, to keep peace in the group. Ruth is, I fear, somewhat down on her luck. The Yuletide’s expensive, and Constance would have made a big deal of wanting to help Ruth with the cost, and Ruth would have been offended. I don’t know if Karla’s all that well off, either. I’ll order dinner in tonight, and we’ll have the potluck tomorrow.”
“Good idea.”
“You’ll come to dinner tomorrow. No excuses. Genevieve made a crack this morning over breakfast when Karla helped herself to a second bagel. Barbara suggested we all go for a hike, and Constance said she wanted to get started on her Christmas shopping. Barbara said she’d heard that some people considered shopping to be a recreational activity, but didn’t we all agree that excessive consumerism was destroying the planet.”
“Let me guess, Constance didn’t suddenly see the light and decide to dedicate herself to a life of poverty and good works.”
“No, she did not. The word ‘bleeding heart’ might have been employed. Karla then started on, once again, about hoping for more grandchildren, and Barbara turned on her to say the earth was overpopulated as it is. Ruth sat at the breakfast table, not even trying to be friendly, with her nose buried in a book. That seems to be the way she shuts out the world. She’s going through a binge phase at the moment, she told me, for classic mystery novels.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” I said. “The shutting-out-the-bickering part.”
“I made a point of rising early this morning to serve breakfast and otherwise be a good hostess, and I spent most of the time cowering in the kitchen, trying not to listen.” Mom gave Mattie a final pat and got to her feet with a sigh. “I have to get home. I have a student coming at twelve thirty. He’s new to Rudolph and looks to be promising indeed.”
I stood up also and wrapped my mom in a spontaneous hug. “Hang in there,” I said.
“I’ll try. The strange thing is, I like these women, all of them, individually. And not just in memory of our youth and our college years. Your father and I had a lovely time visiting Constance last summer, she made us so welcome, and I’ve had lunch with Ruth a few times over the years when we’ve been in Rochester, or with Barbara or Genevieve in New York. I haven’t seen Karla since college though.”
“Is Genevieve an actress? Vicky thought she’d seen her in something.”
“Ask Vicky to tell her that. She’ll be pleased. She studied acting at Steinhardt and went to Los Angeles once she finished college. Her real name is Joanne; she took on something she considered to be more exotic, hoping it would help with her career prospects. She had some small success at first and had hopes of hitting the big time in TV, but that never happened. She came back to New York several years ago to take a role in an afternoon soap, but that ended before
long. I don’t think she gets much work at all anymore.” Mom shook her head. “Not many roles for a woman once she hits forty, never mind fifty. Poor thing. Genevieve and I are the only ones who pursued a career in the arts. The others went in other directions. Barbara switched to law school. Constance and Karla didn’t even graduate, and both went back home to pick up the lives they’d left. Six o’clock tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
“As much as I might want to, I won’t.”
She gave me a smile and left. Mattie made a performance of settling himself into his bed on the floor with much turning and huffing and puffing before finally flopping down in an inelegant heap. I hadn’t said anything to Mom about the possibility of one of her friends having stolen from me and from Vicky’s bakery. What would be the point? They’d all be off for home on Monday.
I gave Vicky a call. If I had to go to a potluck at Mom’s, I’d drag her along with me. That’s what best friends are for. “You’re invited out to dinner tomorrow night. Are you free?”
“As it happens,” she said, “I am. That’ll be nice. Where are we going?”
“My mom’s. And it’s potluck.”
Vicky’s groan came down the line. “I hate potlucks. I cook all day. I don’t want to have to provide my own food when I go out.”
“It’s a command performance for me, so I’m commanding you to come along, and you can’t now make an excuse to get out of it because I tricked you by asking if you were free first. Can’t you bring something from the bakery? One of those turkey potpies?”
“They’re supposed to provide me with an income.”
“Please?”
“I’ll manage something. What are you making?”
I had to be at the shop until closing tomorrow evening, and I’m not much of a cook anyway. “I’ll buy the ingredients and put together a salad at Mom’s.”
“No packaged salad mix or bottled dressing.”
“It comes another way?”