Silent Night, Deadly Night

by Vicki Delany

  “I can do both,” Kyle said. “And the paper can choose which one to use.”

  The picture of the two customers with Jackie and me was taken quickly. Pose, snap, done.

  It would be deleted the minute they were out the door.

  Wayne arranged Jackie and me on either side of him and put his arms loosely around our shoulders. Kyle lifted his camera and said, “Say cheese.”

  I ducked as a light flashed.

  “Hey, Merry,” Kyle said. “That wasn’t a good shot. Let’s try again.”

  “No, thanks. We’re done here. Jackie, we have customers. Mr. Fitzroy, it’s nice to see you again, but Jackie and I have work to do. See you around sometime, Kyle.”

  Something moved behind Wayne’s eyes. He dropped the big smile and studied my face. A grin touched the edges of his mouth. “Not as dumb as you look,” he said.

  “If that’s supposed to be a compliment,” I said, “it’s not a good one.”

  Kyle was holding his camera at chest height. He threw a glance at Jackie, clearly waiting for instructions.

  I provided them. “Kyle, get lost.”

  “Okay. Call me, Wayne, when you want to try again.” Kyle threw a “Catch you later, babe,” to Jackie and sauntered off.

  A pout crossed Jackie’s overly lipsticked mouth, but then a customer called her, and she turned with a smile. Jackie had a lot of faults, her attitude toward me—her boss—high among them, but she was an excellent salesclerk.

  “All I’m trying to do here,” Wayne Fitzroy said in a low voice, “is to make the point that there shouldn’t be any hard feelings. Noel’s your dad, and I’m sure he has your loyalty, as he should, but some people think his time as the big man around town is over.”

  “My dad has never been the big man, as you call it. Even when he was the mayor, he governed by consensus.”

  “If you say so, honey.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t want me as your enemy, Merry.”

  “We don’t have enemies in Rudolph,” I said. “We believe everyone working together for the good of the town makes each one of us better off.”

  “America’s Christmas Town. Such a nice image. Doesn’t quite match reality, though, does it? What happened in here, in your oh-so-charming little store, last July?”

  “Obviously you know, or you wouldn’t be asking.”

  “A man died. Murdered. While you and your Santa Claus were playing make-believe down at the harbor. And now another murder in Rudolph. At your parents’ house, no less. Your father was in Florida when that happened, or so the story goes. Is that true?”

  I floundered, speechless. Was this man threatening not only Rudolph’s reputation but that of my dad himself?

  “Thanks for your time, Merry,” he said. “Let’s talk soon. I have some ideas for next week’s parade you’ll find interesting. I’m thinking enough of this cozy small-town atmosphere. We’re too late to line up corporate sponsorship for this year, but we can start working on next year.”

  “Why do you even want to be Santa?” I blurted out. “Jolly Saint Nick hardly suits the image you’re trying to project here.”

  He grinned at me. “Good question. And because you asked it, I’ll answer.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. Almost despite myself I stepped forward in order to hear. “What else have I got to do with the rest of my life? As long as I’m stuck in this backwater, I might as well have fun with it.” He raised his voice. “Jackie, what’s your role in the parade?”

  “I help Merry on her float.”

  “How about head elf?” he said. “You could be on Santa’s float. Sit beside me. Would you like that?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “But other than Alan, the head toymaker, and a parent to watch the children, Santa only has kids on his float.”

  “A more sophisticated, adult image would be nice for a change, don’t you agree?”

  “That’s a great idea!” she said.

  “Let’s make it happen then.” He touched a finger to his forehead and turned to leave.

  The grin he gave me was not that of someone full of the Christmas spirit.

  Chapter 20

  “I have to go out,” I said to Jackie.

  She sighed heavily. “Again? I sometimes wonder if you work here, Merry. Good thing you have me. A less dedicated assistant wouldn’t put up with all your comings and goings, you know.”

  I refrained from pointing out that any assistant, dedicated or not, would put up with whatever they had to if they wanted to be paid at the end of the week. “It’ll be quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Everyone’s at home getting ready for Thanksgiving.”

  As if to prove me a liar, the door opened and a mass of people streamed into the store.

  “I want a promotion,” Jackie said.

  “To what?”

  “Assistant manager.”

  “You’re my only full-time employee. You’ll be managing yourself.”

  “A promotion and a raise to go along with it. Can I help you with anything, ladies? Those linens are lovely, aren’t they? Perfect for your Thanksgiving table. Today’s the last day they’ll be available until next year, as we’ll put the Thanksgiving things away tonight so we can start getting everything ready for Christmas on Friday.”

  “Then I’d better buy them today,” a customer said. “I’ll take the full set.”

  Jackie gave me a triumphant smile.

  Jackie had her faults, and trying to trap me into a photo op with someone out to destroy my father was high among them, but she truly was an excellent saleswoman.

  After talking to Wayne Fitzroy, I needed a shower. Instead, I marched down the street to the newspaper office. Dad had told me not to get involved in the matter of our town’s Santa Claus. It would appear that I was involved whether I wanted to be or not. Wayne Fitzroy had involved me.

  When I was growing up, the Rudolph Gazette was a big presence in our town. I’m only in my early thirties, but a lot has changed since my dad was the mayor and he would sometimes bring me with him when he visited the Gazette offices.

  Back then, the newspaper filled most of an office building in the center of Jingle Bell Lane. Men and women with determined expressions on their faces, ink or typewriter ribbon stains on their fingers, and cameras around their necks ran in and out all day, in pursuit of the latest scoop. Inside, the building hummed with the clanging of typewriter—later computer—keys, the incessant ringing of phones, and the deep powerful voice of the editor in chief throwing open his office door and bellowing, “Get me rewrite!” There was an entertainment editor, a social (i.e., gossip) columnist, a sports reporter, news staff, and two full-time photographers, not to mention a team of copy editors, advertising salespeople, a receptionist, and personal assistants.

  These days, the paper occupied the ground floor of the building, and the editor in chief didn’t even have an office with a door, but a desk shoved into the corner. The editor in chief doubled as a reporter (the only full-time reporter) and he covered everything: news, high school sports, town events. The receptionist was also in charge of advertising.

  And Kyle Lambert—Kyle Lambert!—was the photographer.

  “I’d like to speak to Russ,” I said to the receptionist.

  “I’ll see if he’s in,” she said to me.

  “I can see that he’s in. He’s right there.” I pointed. Russ was at his desk in the corner, head down, typing away at his computer.

  “Formalities,” she said, “have to be observed. He might be busy.”

  “This is important.”

  She picked up the phone on her desk and pushed a button. At the far side of the room, Russ’s head came up. He looked over, saw me, and waved me in. Only then did he pick up the phone.

  “You don’t really need a receptionist,” I said as I e
ntered his office space. “Everyone who comes in can see you.”

  He grinned and leaned back in his chair. “What can I say? I like the image. What’s up?”

  “You can’t keep Kyle Lambert on as a photographer.”

  “Yes, I can. But you can tell me why not.”

  “He’s doing freelance work.”

  “That’s not a problem. He doesn’t work for me full-time. He has to find other jobs.”

  “Fair enough. But he’s doing freelance while telling people he’s with the Gazette. Which is probably bad enough, except other people are using him for their own ends.”

  “Such as?”

  “Wayne Fitzroy set me and Mrs. Claus’s Treasures up for a photo op, obviously wanting to show everyone that I’m on his side in the Santa Claus affair.”

  “I love this town. Only in Rudolph,” Russ drawled, “do I not have to ask what the Santa Claus affair is.”

  “Wayne spun Kyle a story about how the paper likes to feature pictures of people enjoying Christmas.”

  “Why is that a problem? It’s true. Photographs like that are the only thing that keeps this paper in business.”

  “You want photos of visitors, families, children, and grandparents, not Jackie and me, posing next to the Christmas tree in my own store. Kyle was there with his camera—your camera—and Jackie was dressed and made up for a photo shoot, when Wayne just happened”—I made quotation marks around the words—“to wander in to say hi.”

  “How does this reflect on the paper? Plenty of people take pictures and bring them in, hoping we’ll run them. Sometimes we do.”

  “Kyle was using the camera you lent him and his supposed authority as an employee of the paper for someone’s private ends.”

  Russ pulled a face. “Okay. I’ll have a word with him.”

  “You do that. But, more to the point, we have to do something about Wayne Fitzroy. He’s out to ruin Christmas.”

  Only in Rudolph would the editor in chief of a respectable newspaper not laugh. “How do you think he’s going to accomplish that? And, more importantly, why?”

  “Why? Because he’s mean, that’s why, and he thinks it’ll be amusing. How? He’s going to turn our wholesome image into some sort of adult-movie version of Christmas.”

  Russ’s eyebrows came together.

  “Corporate-sponsored adult Christmas.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “We have to stop him.”

  “I’ll run any statement Noel wants to make, but otherwise, there’s nothing I can do, Merry. Not unless your dad wants to make something out of it.”

  “He doesn’t. He doesn’t understand that Wayne doesn’t simply want to be Santa because he wants to be Santa, but because he wants to use that position to take over the town. He’s talking about corporate advertising for the parade. I’m sure some of that advertising revenue will manage to find its way into his campaign accounts when he runs for council.”

  “Then we’ll expose that, when and if it happens. I can’t run stories based on speculation, Merry.”

  I threw up my hands. “I know that. So let’s be proactive.”

  “I’m all ears. I’m a newcomer to this town, but I’m beginning to love it as much as you do. Have a seat.”

  I sat down. “Okay, here’s my plan. First, Mrs. D’Angelo’s network says he was fired for embezzlement from his last job. You can investigate and expose that. Second, Wayne’s blackmailing Sue-Anne into making him Santa because Sue-Anne’s husband is having an affair. Which would be bad enough in itself, but he’s supposedly having this affair with a town councilor from Muddle Harbor. To a true Rudolphite, that’s equivalent to high treason.”

  Muddle Harbor was the town next to us. When Rudolph began to achieve some success and renewed prosperity after it made itself a year-round Christmas destination, the people of Muddle Harbor didn’t take it well. The Muddites, as we called them, tried to make themselves over as Easter Town, which wasn’t exactly a roaring success. Various other endeavors had been tried and failed over the years, leaving them without much other than a conviction that their town’s economic collapse was caused by Rudolph’s success.

  “First, this is not the Washington Post, Merry. I don’t have the resources to investigate anything that happened out of town, and I’m hardly going to ask Mable D’Angelo for a quote. Second, if it’s true about some affair, and we don’t know that it is,” Russ said, “what can we do about it?”

  “Blackmail Sue-Anne, too.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Tell her if she appoints Wayne as Santa, we’ll tell everyone about her husband. Maybe hint that you’ll run an article in the paper.”

  “Which I won’t. We’re not a gossip rag, Merry.”

  “I wonder how Wayne plans to get the word out?”

  “I’m also not a blackmailer. And neither are you. I don’t think you’ve thought this plan through, Merry.”

  I had to confess, I hadn’t. All I knew about Mr. Morrow’s supposed infidelity was what I’d heard from Mrs. D’Angelo. Short of following Sue-Anne’s husband to Muddle Harbor and lurking in the bushes with a camera hoping for a chance to take an incriminating picture, I had nothing.

  What would I do, if I did get something? Sue-Anne had never done the slightest thing to harm me, and all she threatened to do to Dad was to stay out of the selection of Santa Claus. She might be cowardly, but she wasn’t a bad person, and her husband’s infidelities shouldn’t reflect on her. Russ was right—I hadn’t quite thought this plan through.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “I am. The only person who can do anything about this is your dad, Merry. You’ll have to leave it up to him.”

  I stood up. “Thanks, Russ.”

  “If anything incriminating about Fitzroy crosses my desk, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, what’s happening about the death of Karla Vaughan? I hear her husband’s arrived in town.”

  “He has.” I didn’t say anything to Russ about what I knew about Karla and Eric’s marriage. That didn’t need a public airing. “Simmonds is going to decide later today if she can let the women go home. She’ll have to, if she doesn’t come up with anything new.”

  Russ nodded. “Lawyers have been calling me. They’re threatening legal action against the Rudolph PD.”

  “Catch you later,” I said.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” he replied.

  I didn’t know what I wanted to achieve by talking to Russ, but whatever it was, I hadn’t achieved it. I was feeling thoroughly miserable as I left the newspaper offices. On top of being told there was nothing I could do to stop Wayne Fitzroy from becoming Santa, the first step on his plan for eventual world (or at least the small part of it that was Rudolph, New York) domination, I’d been told to have a happy Thanksgiving.

  Which was turning out to be anything but.

  Outside the butcher’s shop, a line was forming as Rudolphites waited to collect their fresh turkey or crown roast. “Happy Thanksgiving, Merry,” a woman called.

  I muttered something in reply.

  Across the street, people were leaving Victoria’s Bake Shoppe, carrying boxes containing cakes and pies, or jars of soup or condiments.

  Vicky’s bakery sits next to the municipal complex, containing the library, the town council offices, and the police station.

  As I passed, I saw Wayne Fitzroy skipping down the steps of town hall. He buttoned up his coat and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He was smiling and looking highly pleased with himself indeed.

  He caught me looking and flashed me a huge grin and a thumbs-up. I turned my head and hurried away.

  Chapter 21

  I debated telling Jackie not to have anything to do with Wayne, but I decided against it. She’d tell Kyle what I’d said, and Kyle would tell Wayne. And Wayne would then try all the harder to get her onto h
is side.

  Jackie didn’t have a mean bone in her body, but she sometimes didn’t think things through to their logical conclusion.

  All it would take to get her on Wayne’s side would be a bit of over-the-top flattery. Like a lot of girls who’d been the prettiest one in their small-town high school, Jackie was spoiled. She was used to attention, and as the attention faded as she got older, she tried all the harder to draw it back.

  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make her assistant manager and give her a small raise. The store had had a good fall, and the holiday season was shaping up to be a profitable one. And, I had to admit, she had a point. I was spending more time on my personal business than in the shop.

  All the more reason I couldn’t tell her to stay away from Wayne. It would look as though the promotion and the raise were a bribe.

  As I’d predicted, business was slow in the hours before early closing. While Jackie tended to the few customers who did come in, I began disassembling the Thanksgiving displays and getting the fresh Christmas ones ready.

  At three o’clock, I flipped over the sign on the door. A few of the shop owners hurried past, having taken the opportunity to close early.

  “Uh, Merry?” Jackie said.

  I turned to see her studying her shoes. “What?”

  “I was wondering if . . . well, I mean, do you have anywhere to go tomorrow? For Thanksgiving?”

  “You mean for dinner?”

  “Yeah. If you don’t, I mean with your parents having guests and being under suspicion for murder . . .”

  “My parents aren’t suspects.”

  “Whatever.” She lifted her head and the words tumbled out. “You can come to my mom’s if you like. My sister and her family are coming, and some of the cousins. Not Uncle Jerry and Aunt Beatrice, who no one can stand, though. So that’s a good thing. Kyle’ll be there, too. You’re welcome to have dinner with us. Mom’s doing a turkey.”

  I felt a lump in my throat. “Jackie, it is so nice of you to think of me, but I’ve invited my parents around to my place.”