“Mother,” Jane said. “It’s not nice to talk about people that way.” She gave me a sideways look that made me wonder if she’d heard the same thing about me.
“Well, it’s true,” Eleanor went on, stubbornly. “Randy the Rancid we called him. Always in his drink, always trying to scheme so he didn’t have to do a lick of work. He didn’t get paid for his role as Santa in those plays, but he used to get other paying jobs where he could sit on his fat fanny. Jolly my tush. I worked with the man!”
“Mom, that doesn’t make him necessarily a bad man,” Jane said.
“I heard he was talking down at the Whistling Wet Weasel about getting his old role back.” Eleanor leaned forward, eyes gleaming like I had never seen them before. “And then that night, who ends up dead?” She spread her hands and nodded like she’d said it all.
“They already caught the killer, Mom,” Jane said. She sounded frustrated with Eleanor. I was starting to get a better picture of their relationship, and I can’t say I felt Jane was handling her mom right. Sure, Eleanor needed some help, but I think she was lonely, not losing it.
“Actually,” I said, knowing I probably shouldn’t add fuel to the fire, but wanting to know more. “I’m not so sure about that.”
Both of them stared at me, causing me to redden now that I had everyone’s full attention.
“I kind of know the accused,” I said, leaving out the fact we’d dated. Knowing how the gossip train worked around here, it was a moot point anyway. Everyone would know by tomorrow. “He’s got an alibi and I’m inclined to believe him.”
“He was at your house,” Eleanor said, narrowing her eyes at me like I was suddenly under suspicion. “That’s what all the ruckus was about last night.”
“He was,” I admitted. “He came to me for help.” Then to redirect, “I’m also the one who called the police on him. Since then, I’ve learned more about what happened that night, and I’m starting to believe Robert might be innocent.”
“So, it could be this Randy guy Mom’s talking about?” Jane asked.
“I knew it!” Eleanor cackled and rubbed her hands together. Her eyes darted to an old wall phone as if she was anxious to call someone and spread the word.
“I don’t know for sure yet,” I said, hoping to stem the tide before it got started. “He’s shown up at practice a few times, looking tipsy, so I suppose it’s possible he lost control.” I turned to Eleanor. “Do you really think he’s capable of killing someone?”
She shrugged, took a bite of meatloaf, and grinned. “Being Santa was his life. Losing his role in the play damaged his reputation around town. I heard he wasn’t even hired on at some of his other gigs out of town because of it. You know, mall stuff.”
“But that’s not enough reason to kill someone,” Jane said, sounding shocked by the whole mess.
There was a time when I would have agreed, but lately, I wasn’t so sure. People tended to lose their minds when their livelihood was threatened. By the sound of it, Randy Winter didn’t just play Santa; he lived it. He had to resent the man who’d stepped in to fill his big black boots. And while it was more the fault of the director who’d cast someone else, and Randy for his inability to stay sober, it’s easy enough to blame the replacement.
And I had seen Randy there the night of Chuck’s murder, so it put him on the scene.
“I don’t like all this murder talk,” Jane said, even though she’d been the one to bring it up. “We should focus on the good in the world, not the bad.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes and went about eating, seemingly happy she’d gotten a chance to gossip. I wondered if she ever talked to Rita. I imagine the two of them had enough in common they’d hit it off splendidly if given the chance.
Of course, I’m not sure how ready the town would be for that pairing.
I had further questions, but I let the matter drop for now. Tonight was supposed to be about instilling good feelings between neighbors, and while the topic of conversation might not have been the most dinner worthy, it had given both Eleanor and I something to talk about. Baby steps and all that.
And besides, I now had a suspect at the top of my list who wasn’t named Robert Dunhill. Tomorrow, Randy Winter and I were going to have a little chat. I intended to find out how jolly this Santa really was.
9
I went home that night, head full of ideas. Not only did I feel like my relationship with my neighbor was on the mend, but she’d given me quite a lot to think about when it came to possible suspects in Chuck’s murder. At this point, I wasn’t sold on anyone just yet, not knowing enough about anyone to make any real judgments, but I was starting to see who could have done it, and why.
When I went to bed a few hours later, I couldn’t focus on sleep. My dreams were full of Santas and elves, each looking guiltier than the last. Even Rudolph made an appearance in one disturbing dream where Santa had been stabbed with antlers, not a knife.
When I woke, it was to a white world. Misfit was sitting in the window, staring wide-eyed at the fluff falling from the sky. We didn’t get this kind of weather where I’d lived in California, and while he’d seen snow just last winter, we’d never really had a good white snowfall. Last winter was mostly a mix of wet snow and rain that made things muddy, not pretty.
Tired, I got up and made my morning coffee, still in my PJs. I didn’t have anywhere to be just yet, and wanted to enjoy my morning without thinking about murder or plays or Robert. Once my coffee was done and properly doctored, I stood at the window and watched the snow fall. It really was beautiful, though I dreaded having to drive in it. To someone who was used to it, the snow wouldn’t be a problem. For me, it might as well have been a solid sheet of ice. I’d be lucky not to slide my way directly into a ditch.
Eventually, I made myself a real breakfast and got myself cleaned up for the day. The hot shower beat away most of my weariness and by the time I was dressed, I was ready to face the world.
I started by seeing what I could dig up about Randy Winter. There was quite a lot of references to him online, almost all about his work as Santa over the years. He was very nearly a local celebrity in that regard. I found his home address easily enough and decided I’d pay him a visit before I headed into practice. Maybe he’d be able to give me some insights into the cast. Or, if he was the killer, would give himself up once confronted.
As if I’d ever be so lucky.
Not sure what else I could do until it was time to go, I pulled out a holiday crossword puzzle book, sat by the window, and waited for the plow to go through as I worked through the puzzles. There was no way I was going to leave until it did.
It took a little over two hours before I heard the scraping, rumbling sound of the plow. It zoomed right past my street, going faster than expected. Dirty snow and ice flew to the side of the road. I watched the plow go, hoping the driver would turn around, but instead, he turned left and continued on until he was out of sight.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d skipped my street. I lived on a dead end residential road. It’s not like there was ever any through traffic, and really, it wasn’t all that long of a street. I’d be driving in fluff for only about twenty seconds.
Bundled up as if I was going on a trip to the North Pole, I headed out. My car started up with only a mild protest and I sat in it, waiting for the windshield to defrost. When it did, I put the car in gear, and backed out, slowly so my bumper wouldn’t get an up close and personal introduction to my mailbox.
I drove slowly, which earned me quite a few honks along the way. At one point, I got passed by an elderly man whose face was nearly touching his windshield. He wore glasses that looked as thick as bottle caps, but that didn’t stop him from glaring at me on his way past. I decided to speed up a touch.
It still took me twice as long as it should have to reach Randy Winter’s home. I was surprised to find he lived in a cute little cottage. It was small and looked well-tended from the outside. His drinking apparently didn’t stop him from k
eeping up maintenance on his home. His lawn ornaments consisted of reindeer and a wooden Santa on a sleigh filled with gifts. The windows were decorated with stick-on snowflakes. I fully expected to see lights strewn from one end of the cottage to the other, but they were currently absent. It made the place seem a little sad, as if the former Santa couldn’t get up the energy to finish the job.
I pulled into the short driveway and frowned. Tire tracks led from the car port at the side of the house, telling me someone had left sometime after the snow had stopped falling. There were no other cars in the drive, meaning I’d likely missed Randy. The car port was only big enough for one vehicle, so he either lived alone, or whoever he lived with didn’t drive.
Undeterred, I got out of my car and headed for the front door, leaving three-inch deep footprints in my wake. I knocked, wincing as my frozen knuckles impacted the hard wooden door. I waited a good minute, knowing I was wasting my time, but holding out hope that he lived with someone who was still inside.
“You looking for Randy?” a middle-aged woman called from the house next door. She was wearing a bathrobe, slippers, and her hair was in curlers, yet she didn’t look as if she was cold. Steam curled from the coffee mug in her hand, making me want some myself. “He’s not home.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I asked.
“When the beer runs out, I’d wager.” She chuckled at her own joke. “I’d try back again late tonight, though I doubt he’ll be in any condition to talk by then.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking it was a bit early to start drinking, but who was I to judge? The man had lost the one role he apparently lived for. That couldn’t be easy, though I wasn’t a big fan of drinking to forget. There were other, less destructive ways, to get over disappointment.
The woman raised her mug to me in salute before vanishing back inside.
Trudging back to my car, I considered giving up for the day. I could always try to catch Randy really early the next morning, before he had a chance to hit the bars. Or I could stop by on my way home after practice. Then again, he’d shown up every single practice since the start, begging for his role back, so I might just have to wait for him to make an appearance and talk to him then.
But I wasn’t thrilled about the idea. Not only would he be in a foul mood—and likely drunk—but everyone else would be there as well. It would be much better to have our little chat where someone couldn’t eavesdrop.
It was then I remembered what Eleanor had said last night. She’d said he’d talked about trying to get his part in the play back, and he’d done it in a very specific place: the Whistling Wet Weasel.
The name didn’t make the bar sound very appealing, and there was no guarantee Randy frequented the same place every day, but it was worth a shot.
Back in my car, I did a quick Google, and then was on my way. I drove slowly down the streets, which were already getting snow covered again, until I found the bar. It wasn’t exactly a dive, but it was a near thing. During the summer, I could imagine a lot of motorcycles lining up outside, but in the snow, there were only a handful of cars. Muffled country music came from inside. The windows were decorated with beer signs and posters. There were no smashed bottles or tough looking characters outside, so I took it as a sign I wouldn’t get myself killed asking questions of one of the patrons.
Or so I hoped.
Grimacing, I got out of my car and headed inside. I was met with a warm blast of stale beer and sweat. The place was so hot, I was surprised it wasn’t on fire. Other than the heat, the bar wasn’t so bad inside. There were tables where a handful of patrons were enjoying a meal, without a beer between them. I had to admit, the burgers and fries smelled pretty good. It was already well past lunchtime—closer to dinner, in fact—and my stomach was starting to protest.
I stopped just inside the door, in a puddle formed by the rapidly melting snow, and glanced around. It took all of two seconds to spot Randy at the bar, shoulders slumped, beer in hand. I made my way over to him, hoping he was sober enough to talk without slurring. Then again, drunk, he might let something slip, like, I don’t know, whether or not he killed Chuck.
“Hi, Randy,” I said, sliding up onto the barstool next to him.
He glanced at me, frowned. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Krissy.” I stuck out a hand he pointedly ignored. “I’m one of the elves in the Christmas play this year.” When he didn’t look impressed, I added, “I’m filling in for someone who’s sick.”
Randy eyed me a moment, then shrugged. “Good for you.” He turned back to his beer, though he didn’t raise the bottle to his lips, just spun it slowly in his hands.
The bartender sauntered over. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.
“It’s a little hot in here,” I said, a bead of sweat rolling down my face. “A water would be nice.” I considered adding something to eat, but decided I didn’t quite trust bar food, no matter how good it smelled.
“Thermostat’s broke. It’s either hot as hell or cold as the Antarctic. No in between.” She wandered off to get my water.
I waited until she pushed a sweating glass in front of me before turning back to Randy. “Did you hear what happened to Chuck?” I asked it as nonchalantly as I could.
Randy didn’t respond right away. He took a slow sip from his bottle before nodding. “Can’t say it’s a shame. Got what he deserved for stealing my life out from under me.” He turned on his seat, spread his arms. “Look at me. What else can I do but play Santa.”
He was right. Randy Winter had the belly, the beard, the ruddy cheeks. Add a red suit and spectacles, and he’d be the spitting image of Santa. He even sounded a bit like Saint Nick. I had to fight down the urge to ask him to give me a hearty “Ho, ho, ho.”
“Have you heard anything from Lawrence?” I asked. “He says he’s going to go through with the play, despite what happened.”
Randy snorted and turned back to his beer. “Why wouldn’t he? He’s probably found some other hack to fill in. Despite everything . . .” He glanced sideways at me, then shook his head.
“You two were talking the other day, and it seemed pretty civil,” I said. “I thought you might have mended your relationship and he might give you a call. In fact, he said he’d talked to someone about filling in, and I figured he’d called you.”
Randy frowned hard at his beer. “You didn’t see anything. And I haven’t heard a thing from Lawrence.” Something about the last didn’t ring quite true.
“So you’re saying your conversation with Lawrence had nothing to do with your role as Santa? I know Chuck was still alive then, but maybe Lawrence was already looking to replace him. He seemed pretty confident he’d have a new Santa by today.”
His frown deepened. “Why would it? I was long gone by the time the imposter was killed. If I’d known someone was going to off him, I would have stuck around.” He looked at me. “What is it to you, anyway? You’re just a lowly elf.”
“Just a lowly elf?” I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or amused. “I—”
A blast of “Jingle Bells” cut me off.
“Excuse me.” Randy reached into his pocket, removed his cell, and then glanced at the screen. His eyes widened as he answered. He rose and hurried back toward the bathrooms, voice low so I couldn’t hear much more than his greeting.
The bartender wandered over and I stopped her with a, “What can you tell me about Randy?” I gestured toward the man in question, who was standing by the bathroom doors, but hadn’t gone inside.
“He’s a good guy,” she said with a shrug. “Drinks a bit much when he’s down, but otherwise, he seems decent enough.”
“He’s been upset a lot lately.”
She smiled. “Honey, he’s been miserable ever since they stopped letting him play Santa. It was his life.” She nodded toward my water. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No thank you.”
The bartender shrugged and started wiping down the counter, leaving me t
o wonder if Randy was miserable enough or angry enough to kill the man who’d taken his role. He might not have meant to do it. If he drank too much and went to confront Chuck, he very well might have killed him without knowing what he was doing. And depending on how drunk he’d gotten, he could have forgotten it had ever happened.
But when I’d seen him that night, he hadn’t appeared drunk. In fact, I thought he’d looked pretty lucid and calm.
Randy ended his call and hurried back over to the bar, slapping down a five as he grabbed his coat. “I’ve got to run,” he said, grinning. Before I could ask him why he was so excited, he was heading out the door at a near run.
I frowned after him before glancing at his beer bottle. “Do you think he should be driving?” I asked the bartender who’d scooped up the five.
“He’s been here for two hours, nursing that very same one,” she said, picking up the half-full bottle. “Must have come into some good luck lately.” She walked away.
I rose from my stool and headed for the door. I had a feeling Randy’s good fortune didn’t come in the form of a lottery ticket. With Chuck dead, how easy would it be for him to work his way back into Lawrence’s good graces in an effort to get his job back? Was that why he’d been there that night, cozying up to Lawrence? Did he already know Chuck was going to meet his end and wanted to show the director he could handle it? He knew the role, the words to the play. He was very likely the only choice left this close to opening night.
Randy was long gone by the time I stepped outside. The cold air instantly froze the sweat coating my body, sucking the breath right out of me. I hurried to my car, started it, and jacked the heat up to full blast to thaw out.
It was starting to look more and more like Randy Winter might indeed be involved in Chuck’s murder. Glancing at the clock, I saw I still had a few hours left before I’d know for sure whether or not the call that had sent him scrambling was from Lawrence, offering him the part of Santa again. I had no doubts that when I arrived, I’d be proven correct.
And if that was the case, did that mean he’d killed Chuck?
Death by Eggnog Page 8