by Vicki Delany
“Not that he’s told me.”
“I might not have a role to play after all. Not if Noel’s not going to be Santa. If it comes to that, I can make a few minor tweaks to my costume and sit on your float.”
“I did give it some thought, before all this with Mom and her guests took over. Maybe we can take advantage of Mattie and do something around the mountain rescue origins of Saint Bernard dogs?”
“Great idea. I’ll paint some black lines on a hollow piece of wood to make it look like a barrel and tie it under Mattie’s chin. That, plus a few pine branches and some birch stumps, maybe a painted backdrop to look like high mountains, will be all you’ll need. You can wear your Mrs. Claus costume, and Jackie her elf getup. Christmas in the Swiss Alps.”
“Alan Anderson, I think you might be the perfect man.”
“Goes without saying,” he said modestly.
* * *
* * *
I spent a restless night. Alan’s advice, about both my float and my break-and-enter confession, was practical and sensible. As was he.
But I still wasn’t sure. In the past, Diane Simmonds had seemed to value my help, but this time she’d ordered me to stay out of it.
Mattie snorted and rolled over. His legs moved as he slept as though he dreamt he was chasing squirrels. Or maybe his dreams were of cold-blooded killers.
It was possible Genevieve killed Karla because Karla either was blackmailing her or threatened to expose her.
I decided I had to tell Simmonds what I’d discovered, and then I drifted off to sleep. If I dreamt I was also chasing killers, I don’t remember.
Chapter 17
I let Mattie into the backyard first thing in the morning, showered at Wendy and Steve’s, filled my pot, and took time to admire Tina’s new outfit.
As I was leaving, I caught a glance between Steve and Wendy.
“What?” I said.
Wendy sighed. “I guess you need to know. There’s going to be a piece in the paper this morning about the Santa Claus situation.” Wendy was the receptionist at town hall. Which means she was the first—and sometimes the only—person to know what was going on.
“What Santa Claus situation?”
“Russ came in yesterday afternoon, asking councilors for comments for a story he’s putting together. The rush for the doors was then on. Only Sue-Anne agreed to talk to him. She shut the door to her office, so I don’t know what was said.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll check it out.”
I fed Mattie and put the coffee on. Then I settled at the kitchen table with my iPad while waiting for the plumber. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I called up the page for the Rudolph Gazette.
FITZROY CALLS ON “SANTA” WILKINSON TO STEP DOWN, screamed the headline.
The byline was Russell Durham. Wayne Fitzroy had given an interview to the paper yesterday.
With the Christmas season only a few days away, Rudolph resident Wayne Fitzroy is questioning the ability of former mayor Noel Wilkinson to continue in his role of Santa Claus.
Fitzroy, who with his wife, Norma, moved to Rudolph over the summer and instantly fell in love with the town, expressed his concerns to this newspaper.
“Noel Wilkinson’s loyalty to Rudolph is beyond question and it’s with much regret that I am calling upon him to remove himself from his central role in the forthcoming Christmas season. A woman died in suspicious circumstances at the Wilkinson home only a few days ago, and as of yet, despite the best efforts of the Rudolph police, the case remains open. For the good of the town and its reputation as a family-friendly place to spend the season of goodwill, it would be a mistake to have a man involved in a police investigation playing such a prominent role.”
Fitzroy has called upon the mayor and town council to “show some courage and do the right thing.”
When contacted by this newspaper, interim mayor Sue-Anne Morrow had no comment other than to express her confidence in the success of the forthcoming holiday season. Other councilors were unavailable for comment.
I swore so heartily, Mattie looked up from where he was demolishing a stuffed Santa, a damaged castoff from the store.
Two pictures accompanied the article. One showed Wayne and his wife smiling broadly, standing arm in arm next to the Christmas tree at the bandstand. They looked very Christmassy and community-minded. The other was of Dad coming out of the house with a scowl on his face and his hand in the air, as though shooing away the pesky photographer. The photo did not scream “Christmas spirit.”
The story repeated what precious little it knew about the death of Karla Vaughan. It mentioned that the police had not ruled her death a murder, but I knew everyone reading this article would take it that way. Dad had refused to comment on Fitzroy’s statement. Sue-Anne Morrow, mayor of Rudolph, had made some mealymouthed comment to the effect that no one wanted scandal to reflect on the town. She made no attempt to support Dad or even to point out that he hadn’t even been in Rudolph at the time of the death.
Other councilors had, as Wendy said, scurried for their rat holes when asked to comment. They’d wait until they knew who was winning before declaring their loyalty to one side or the other.
I shouldn’t have, but I sent a text to Russ anyway: Mean article.
He replied almost immediately: Asked Noel to defend himself. He wouldn’t
Me: You coulda found a better pic
Russ: Sent junior photog. Noel refused to smile
Russ: Still friends?
Me: No
Russ: I’ll make it up. Dinner tonite?
Me: No
Despite myself, I found myself smiling. Russ knew I was with Alan now, but he just couldn’t help himself. I did feel a bit better toward him after our brief exchange. He’d given Dad a heads-up about Fitzroy’s statement. If Dad chose not to respond, that was his business.
A link on the page led to a statement from the police. They weren’t yet calling Karla’s death a homicide, but they were asking anyone who’d been on Mom and Dad’s street on Sunday night between five thirty and six fifteen to get in touch with them.
That would have town tongues wagging.
Mattie leapt to his feet a second before the doorbell buzzed, and we went downstairs to greet the plumber.
Today was Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, but there would be no Thanksgiving for the Wilkinsons this year. Mom had called Chris and Carole to tell them not to come and told me to uninvite Alan to dinner.
I wondered if I should ask Mom and Dad to my place to have the holiday meal with Alan and me. Not that I’d ordered a turkey or done any grocery shopping. We could always have pizza.
Might the quarrelsome quartet tag along?
I couldn’t think of a worse way to celebrate Thanksgiving.
While Keith the plumber banged on walls, ran up and down the stairs, and talked to himself in deep serious tones, all while being supervised by Mattie, I called Jackie. Today would be a busy day in town. Locals who’d moved away were arriving to spend the holiday with their families, and the shop-owner grapevine said the hotels and inns were fully booked with Thanksgiving vacationers.
“What’s up?” Jackie groaned into the phone.
“How’d you like to open the store again this morning?”
“What’s it worth to me?”
“Time and a half.”
“I don’t know, Merry. I was out late last night. I need my beauty sleep.” She yawned loudly.
“You can sleep tomorrow when we’re closed for the holiday. Double time.”
“I feel energy returning even as we speak.”
“I hope not to be too late, but I have a plumber here, and then I want to go around to my dad’s.”
“Did you like the picture in the paper? I haven’t seen it yet. Is it good?”
“What picture?”
>
“Of your dad. Kyle got a job as an on-call photographer for the Gazette. Isn’t that cool?”
“Kyle took that picture?”
“Yeah. He’s thinking he’ll spend a year at the Gazette, make his reputation, and then maybe move to New York City or Los Angeles.”
“Kyle’s working for the Gazette? Russ Durham hired him?” What had Russ been thinking?
“That guy who was working there quit and went back to college. He told Kyle about it and Kyle applied for the job.”
I could only assume Kyle had been the sole applicant.
“He’s wanting to be a fashion photographer. You should see some of the pictures he’s taken of me, Merry. They’re so good.” She giggled. “Then again, maybe you shouldn’t see them.”
I rolled my eyes.
From under the stairs, Keith the plumber yelled, “Gotcha,” and I was rewarded by the sound of rushing water.
* * *
* * *
Keith told me far more about pipes and corrosion and intake valves and outlet valves and other assorted thingamajigs than I ever wanted to know. When he finally paused for breath, I reminded him to send the bill to Mrs. D’Angelo, not to me, and waved him out the door.
As soon as he was gone, Mattie and I headed to Mom and Dad’s house. I called Diane Simmonds on the way. “I know you’re going to tell me it’s none of my business,” I said, “but what’s happening with the Karla Vaughan case?”
“It’s none of your business, Merry,” she said. “If you want an update, you can read it in the paper like everyone else.”
“All the paper ever says is that you have no comment, and the chief says the investigation is still ongoing. You can at least tell me when you’re going to allow Mom’s guests to go home. The situation there is not good.”
“I never said they had to stay at your parents’ house, only that they aren’t to leave the town of Rudolph without my permission. Mrs. Westerton’s lawyers have been on to the chief, as has Barbara Shaughnessy’s law partner. I can’t keep them in Rudolph forever, so they do have a point. Obviously I can’t allow the two who have lawyers at their beck and call to leave and detain the others. I called your parents’ house this morning to tell them they can leave tomorrow if I don’t come up with any further reason to detain them.”
“They must have been pleased to hear that.”
“Not so as you’d notice. Constance Westerton intends to send the Rudolph police department the bill for the extra airfare and a night in an airport hotel if she can’t get a flight at the last minute on Thanksgiving Day.”
“Thanks for telling me. Karla’s husband arrived yesterday. Did you know that?”
“I did. I’ve met with him.”
“What did you think?”
“Nothing I’m going to share with you, Merry. I can tell you that he is not under arrest, nor is he a suspect. At this time.”
The tone of her voice loaded the last sentence with significance.
“Did anything come of trying to find who bought the peanuts and other egg salad ingredients?”
“Not yet. We have people still to talk to. Many clerks work part-time or on a casual basis at grocery stores and have other jobs, so they can be hard to track down. We never give up, Merry.”
I took a deep breath. “I have to tell you something. It might not mean much, and if possible I’d prefer not to tell you how I know, but—”
A man’s voice in the background yelled, and in reply Simmonds shouted, “Be right there. I told you not to interfere in this, Merry,” she said to me. “That order stands. Gotta go.”
“Hello? Are you there? Detective? I have something to confess. Detective Simmonds? Diane?”
Silence came down the line. She’d hung up on me.
I put my phone away. “I tried,” I said to Mattie.
I hadn’t planned on confronting Genevieve; I hadn’t planned on anything, but when I let myself in through the back door of my parents’ house, she was the only person in the kitchen, hunched over a mug of coffee while flipping through a fashion magazine.
“Hi,” I said.
She glanced up. “Hello.” She looked down and turned a page of her magazine.
Mattie trotted over to sniff at her legs. Genevieve was still in her nightwear, a peach satin nightgown with a stain on the right sleeve and a rip in the bottom hem. The nightgown was low cut, showing the sharp collarbones and folds of skin on her neck. Her hair was mussed and she hadn’t put on any makeup. Sunlight streamed in through the wide kitchen windows, and she looked about twenty years older—her real age—than she did in soft light and full makeup.
“Where is everyone this morning?” I asked.
“Barbara has gone on yet another of her tedious hikes. Ruth is upstairs reading. She’s determined to get to the bottom of Karla’s murder by uncovering a clue in one of her dratted books. Constance is probably still on the phone to her father’s lawyers, demanding that everyone in the Rudolph police department, from the chief down to the janitor, be fired. Eric’s no doubt watching some dreary sports program on TV. Your mother’s not yet up, and I haven’t seen your father. I suspect he’s hiding.” She sipped her coffee.
“How was dinner last night? I heard you went out.”
“It was passable. The restaurant was good, the food excellent. But I’m getting dreadfully weary of the company. As for the newcomer, that husband of Karla’s . . .” She let out a bark of laughter. “He’s as dull as I’d have expected a husband of hers to be. Soon-to-be-ex-husband, I should say. Imagine that, Karla with her perfect little family and her perfect little life had been dumped for another woman. They aren’t even divorced yet, and he and his new girlfriend already have another baby on the way.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. The new woman is half Karla’s age, but so ugly Eric must have been the only man she could catch. He passed around a picture of her. Totally tasteless thing to do, if you ask me.”
About as tasteless as Genevieve’s conversation.
“Considering,” Genevieve said, “that we’re Karla’s friends.”
“Did he seem sad?”
“You mean about Karla’s death? He put on a show of wiping his eyes now and again and blew into his handkerchief. But then he blathered on and on about how he was looking forward to being a father again.” She snorted. “What a fool. He’s forgotten about midnight feedings and temper tantrums, not to mention driver’s license arguments and college tuition.” She might have been talking to me, but her attention had returned to her magazine. She continued flipping pages. Upside down, I saw lean, pouting models, excessive amounts of alabaster skin, ridiculous clothes, brilliant jewelry. And that was the men. The women wore even more jewelry and showed even more skin.
I wondered how best to approach the subject most on my mind, then I decided nothing would suit but full speed ahead. “Some items were stolen from my shop on Friday and again yesterday afternoon. Other stores along Jingle Bell Lane report the same thing.”
That got Genevieve’s attention. Her head snapped up. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. We’re a tight-knit community here, the shop owners in particular. When I heard what times the other stores had been hit, it occurred to me that the pattern followed your path through town.”
Her right eye began to twitch. “That’s too bad, but you can’t possibly be thinking one of us—”
“Actually, Genevieve, I think you shoplifted from my store, twice; from Victoria’s Bake Shoppe; from Rudolph’s Gift Nook; and from Diva Accessories.”
Another twitch.
“Because the Nook is next door to me, I’m good friends with the owner.” Okay, so I lied. It was all in the pursuit of justice, and I wasn’t under oath. “When she realized what had happened, she came to talk to me. She described a tall, thin woman, sophisticated, very pretty. That could only be you
.” It never hurt to pile on a layer of flattery when forcing a confession.
“Rubbish.” She shut her magazine. “I might have been in those stores, there’s nothing else to do in this miserable town, but I didn’t steal anything. If you’ll excuse me, I have calls to make. I’m supposed to be getting a callback for a role, and if I don’t hear today, everything’ll be shut down until next week.”
“We—the shop owners, I mean—intend to tell the police and ask them to investigate. Only a few small insignificant items have been taken, but it’s important to nip this sort of thing in the bud, don’t you agree?” I glanced at my watch. “My friend should be dropping into the police station anytime now. They’ll be here soon with a warrant to search the guests’ rooms.”
“In that case”—Genevieve stood up and gave me a bright smile that did nothing to eliminate the fear in her eyes. Judging by her acting today, I wasn’t surprised she wasn’t getting any roles—“I’ll run upstairs and get dressed.”
“I’ll go with you and stand outside your door. We wouldn’t want any items being moved about, now, would we?”
She glared at me, the expression on her face alternating between anger and fear. Fear won out, and she dropped into her chair with a groan. “I’m sorry, Merry, really I am. I’ll give everything back. There’s time still, isn’t there? You can take the things so the police don’t find them. Please. I don’t need any more shoplifting charges on my record.”
More charges?
I attempted to look stern. Sensing Genevieve’s distress and wanting to comfort her, Mattie put his head in her lap. She shoved him away. He wasn’t used to being rebuffed, so he came to me instead. I scratched behind his ears.
“Why did you do it?” I said. “The ornaments from the Nook cost less than three dollars. They’ll be discounted after Christmas to ninety-nine cents.”
Genevieve’s shoulders slumped, and she began to cry. I got up and pulled a sheet off a roll of paper towels, handed it to her, and sat down. I waited for her to cry it out and hoped no one would come in. Mattie nuzzled his face into my lap, and I stroked his soft fur.