by Vicki Delany
“I’d expect the council to show some support for Dad, after all he’s done for this town over the years. Instead, they’ve been mighty quick to throw him under the bus.”
“Sue-Anne’s doing, I expect.” Alan carefully placed the soldier back among his fellows. “If anyone does take over as Santa, I won’t be acting as his toymaker. This town needs to stand behind Noel, even if we do lose a few visitors on the weekend.” Alan left my shop without another word. My back still burned from his touch.
I locked up and went home, hoping for a nice, quiet evening.
But it was not to be. Mrs. D’Angelo was at her post in her front window, and by the time I turned into our yard, she was waiting on the porch. I marched resolutely past her, refusing to make eye contact. “Merry!” she cried after me, her voice carrying in the chilly air. “I want you to know that I believe the police have arrested the wrong man. Noel Wilkinson is not a killer.” At that precise moment it seemed as though half of Rudolph was walking past our house.
At least Mattie hadn’t heard my dad was under suspicion for murder. He leapt joyfully out of his crate the moment I opened it and covered my face with kisses. Kisses, along with a healthy dose of slobber. I decided not to take him for a walk tonight—I was not in the mood for encountering curious but well-meaning townsfolk. Instead I found a tennis ball and we played catch in the backyard. Mattie bounded through the drifts, dug paths in the snow with his nose, and barked in delight as he tried to bite flakes shaken loose from the trees.
I was beginning to feel a great deal better by the time I called him to come in.
“That looks like fun,” said a voice behind me. I turned and smiled at Wendy, my neighbor.
“A dog’s life,” I said, giving her a grin. She had Tina balanced on one hip. At least I think it was Tina. About all I could see was a yellow snowsuit, yellow boots, waving mittens, and the tip of a tiny pink nose sticking out of the hood. Mattie ran over to investigate, and Wendy leaned forward so the baby could greet him.
“I heard about your dad,” she said.
I groaned. “Didn’t everyone?”
“You know they’re trying to find a new Santa for the weekend?”
“Are they having any luck?”
“The number they gave out for potential Santas to call to apply is mine. I haven’t had one call. Not yet.”
“That’s good.”
Wendy gave me an encouraging smile while her daughter struggled to be put down. “I’m sure it’ll all work out fine.”
“I’m disappointed in the council. They might as well have hung a sign on the front doors saying they think Dad’s guilty. It’s a betrayal. Pure and simple.”
“Not the council, Merry. This is Sue-Anne’s doing, and hers alone. I’m telling you this in strict confidence. There was a full-blown screaming match going on behind her office door this afternoon. Several of the councillors and some of the senior staff were telling her she was making a mistake. She wouldn’t listen. Unfortunately, she’d gotten to Ralph first, and he had approved the expense to hire a new Santa—no one’s likely to do it for free like your dad does—and she’d authorized the call for applications. The matter, according to her, was settled.”
“Is anyone going to try to persuade Ralph to change his mind?”
“Conveniently, Ralph suddenly fell ill and had to rush home. His wife says he’s in bed and not able to take calls.” She chuckled. “You can probably forget about this being confidential information. Everyone in the building heard the argument, it was hard not to, and it’ll be all over town soon.” As we talked, Tina struggled mightily to get out of her mother’s grip, encouraged by Mattie, barking at her to come down and play. “Time to get this one upstairs and supper on,” Tina said. “I’ll let you know what happens tomorrow, Merry.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
They went inside, and Mattie and I followed. For once I didn’t have to struggle to get the dog into the house. He had soon learned that where Tina went, little morsels of food sometimes dropped.
I put my phone on the kitchen counter and pulled off all my outerwear. Then I fed Mattie and dug through the fridge for something to make for myself. I pulled out a microwavable pizza. What can I say? I’m not famous for my culinary skills. The phone squatted on the counter like the Grinch in his lair the night before Christmas.
I did not want to call my parents.
I tore the wrapping off the pizza and put it in the microwave. I set the timer. I should probably have made something healthy, like a salad, to go with it, but I didn’t have the energy.
I glanced at the phone.
I did not want to call my parents.
I called my parents.
“Hi, Mom. Just checking in to see if you and Dad are okay.”
Mom let out a long sigh. I could sometimes tell the difference between when she was being theatrical and when she was genuinely upset. This sounded like an upset sigh. “Your father came home a while ago. He’s in his study reading. He says he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Has he . . . uh . . . heard what’s going on at the council?”
“If you mean that they’re looking for another Santa”—she bit off the words—“we have heard. I wanted to storm down there and give those ungrateful people a piece of my mind, but your father asked me not to.”
“How’s Dad taking it?”
“Let’s say that in all the years of our marriage, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he has told me he does not want to be disturbed.”
“Not well, then. You can tell Dad reliable sources say this was Sue-Anne’s idea and she went against the objections of most of the councillors.”
“He knows that, dear. People have been calling with their support all afternoon.”
Despite how I was feeling, I smiled inside. Good for the people of Rudolph. Most of them, anyway.
“Today’s Tuesday,” Mom said. “I’ll have to decide soon if I’m going to cancel the concert in order to give my students and their parents sufficient notice.”
“What concert?”
“Saturday afternoon, of course. My children’s classes are scheduled to perform Christmas carols at the bandstand. My students have worked hard preparing for this, but I won’t put in an appearance if the town continues to treat your father this way.”
“You might lose some students, Mom.”
“So be it.”
“Why don’t you and Dad go away for a few days? You haven’t been to the city in December in years, not since Dad really got going with the whole Christmas Town thing. Remember how much you used to love Christmas in New York?”
“I suggested that, dear. Detective Simmonds told your father he was not to leave town.”
“Oh,” I said. That didn’t sound good. “Give dad a kiss for me. Tell him if he needs anything, I’m here.”
“Thank you, dear. I’m going around to the inn in the morning to meet Grace for breakfast. Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t think . . .” I began.
“I’d like your support, Merry. I’m quite likely to haul off and punch someone in the face if they dare ask me about your father being arrested.”
I pushed aside the image of my cape-clad Mom being clapped in handcuffs for assault and hauled off to jail and pulled up a mental image of the store calendar instead. Jackie was scheduled to open tomorrow. “Sure, Mom. I’ll pick you up.”
“Thank you, dear. Good night.”
The microwave beeped to tell me dinner was ready. I pulled the unappetizing mess out. I plopped it onto a plate and tossed the plate onto the kitchen table. When I’m having dinner at home alone I usually like to go online and catch up on the latest news while I eat. Today I simply didn’t want to know what was going on in the world. At least not in the small corner of the world that was Rudolph, New York.
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br /> Mattie’s ears stood up; he jumped to his feet and barked.
A second later the doorbell rang.
I pushed aside my meal and trudged downstairs to answer the door. Russ Durham stood there, his head and shoulders dotted with freshly fallen snow. Before he could offer greetings, Mattie hit him full in the chest. Russ staggered backward with an oooofff as a rush of air exited his lungs. My arm shot out and I grabbed him. When I was sure my visitor wasn’t going to end up flat on his back with a dog on top of him, I turned to Mattie and reminded him that we didn’t jump on our friends. To my considerable surprise he stopped jumping, although every muscle in his body quivered with barely controlled excitement.
“I’m glad someone’s happy to see me,” Russ said, dusting himself off.
“Sorry about that. He’s young.”
Russ gave Mattie a hearty pat on the head. Thinking all was now okay, Mattie leapt, but this time Russ was ready for him and kept his footing. I chastised the dog again.
“I hope you don’t mind my dropping in,” Russ said, “but I have some news I thought you’d be interested in.”
For a brief moment, my hopes soared. If I was really lucky the police would have made an arrest.
A look at Russ’s face told me I was not likely to be really lucky.
“Come on in,” I said. I led the way upstairs, as Mattie did his best to twist Russ’s legs into knots. Russ glanced around the apartment. My place looked like a playground. Chew toys and the remains of stuffed animals littered the floor. Colorful bungee cords dangled from the ceiling with balls attached. The rugs were rolled up and anything resembling a fragile item had been stuffed onto a high shelf. I’d been so concerned about puppy-proofing the house and so busy at the shop I hadn’t even decorated my own home for Christmas. My beloved things were still packed away in moving boxes.
Russ saw the pizza laid out on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry, looks like I’ve interrupted your dinner.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “It’s scarcely worth eating. Would you like a drink?”
“A beer would be nice, if you have one,” he said.
“Be right back.” I went to the fridge, got a beer for Russ, and poured myself a glass of white wine. When I turned, he was standing at the kitchen counter, opening my iPad. “Might as well show you.”
“Should I be worried?” I asked. I was worried. Russ was not smiling his usual friendly, borderline flirty smile.
He sighed. “Our friends over in Muddle Harbor didn’t wait long to get the word out. Have a look at the online paper.”
We took the drinks and the iPad into the living room and took seats around the coffee table. I typed in the URL for the Muddle Harbor Chronicle. The web page had been updated with the banner “Breaking News” and more exclamation marks than belonged in a respectable newspaper. Then again, the Chronicle was not a respectable newspaper. I read with increasing horror. A photograph of my dad, dressed in full Santa gear, was front and center. The headline read “Rudolph’s Wilkinson Questioned Second Time in Brutal Murder.”
“Oh dear,” I said.
“Oh dear, indeed,” Russ said.
“I suppose this will be on the front page of tomorrow’s paper?”
“No doubt about it.”
“This is a stock photo,” I said. “Easy to come by. But the one in Monday’s paper had been taken the night before, of Mom and Dad leaving the police station. How would the Chronicle have known to come to Rudolph?”
“They might have someone listening to a police scanner,” Russ said. “Simmonds did call for a car to go and pick up your dad.”
“I was there. She used her cell phone, not the radio.”
“Might have been someone already in Rudolph, then, who heard what was going on at the inn and headed down to the police station. Everyone has phones these days, Merry.”
“I guess,” I said. “But if I ever get my hands on any Rudolphite who would try to make Dad look bad, I’ll . . . I’ll do something.”
Russ gave me a smile. “I’m sure you will, Merry.”
I read the rest of the piece. It said nothing more about the death of Gord Olsen than was already common knowledge. It said nothing more about my dad. It didn’t have to.
“What about the Gazette?” I asked. “What are you going to say about this?”
“Lots of people are being questioned,” Russ said. “You and me, for example. I see no reason to single out Noel in particular.”
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Thanks.” I reached for my glass.
“But”—his tone was so ominous my hand froze in the air—“if Noel is arrested, I can’t bury it, Merry.”
“That will not happen,” I said.
While we talked, Mattie’d been attempting to lure Russ into a game of fetch. He finally had enough of being ignored and let out a single sharp bark of annoyance. Russ picked up a pink bunny with only one ear. “May I?” he asked me.
“Sure. But don’t throw it. I’m trying to discourage flying objects in the house.”
Man and dog set to an intense game of tug-of-war. Mattie crouched low. His butt wiggled with excitement, and his bushy tail itself was turned into a flying object. I could tell by the ripple of muscles in Russ’s arm and the clench of his jaw that he was putting his all into it. I sipped my wine and watched them, feeling a smile creep across my face.
Finally, Mattie won. He wrenched the poor tattered rabbit from Russ’s hands and did a series of victory laps around the kitchen and living room. Russ leaned back and picked up his bottle. He raised it in a salute. “To the victor go the spoils.”
I laughed. “You don’t think that’s the end of it, do you?”
Mattie dropped the toy at Russ’s feet with an expectant look in his caramel-colored eyes.
“No more,” I said in a very stern voice. The dog paid me his usual amount of attention. Meaning, none. “What do you think?” I asked Russ. “About who killed Gord, I mean?”
“Hard to say. I’ve never seen anyone make so many enemies so fast. People who work at the inn have a strong motive. Gord threatened their livelihoods. Same for the business owners in town if the Mega-Mart project went ahead. Some people are saying it was Grace.”
“I’ve heard that too, but I don’t buy it. She might not have liked Gord or been in favor of what he wanted to do, but Grace loves Jack above all else. She would never cause him pain.”
“All I’m telling you is what I’m hearing, Merry. The people who are suggesting she killed Gord are also saying, ‘Good for her.’”
I harrumphed.
“How well do you know Mark Grosse?” he asked around a mouthful of beer. He was trying to appear nonchalant, but I sensed it was not an idle question.
“Not well at all. I’ve met him a couple of times. He seems very nice.”
Russ put down his beer bottle. “You might suggest that Vicky not get too involved with him.”
“What are you saying, Russ?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but Mark had a lot to lose if Gord got his way. I have some feelers out with friends in the city, and let’s just say Mark might not have left his last job voluntarily.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged.
“You can’t leave something like that hanging. If you do, you’re as bad as those people whispering Grace’s name.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it. I was thinking about Vicky, and I’m only giving you a heads-up because I know how close you two are. I won’t repeat it to anyone else without positive confirmation. And”—he lifted one hand to stop my outburst of protest—“I won’t repeat it at all unless I consider it relevant.” He nodded toward my untouched pizza, now looking about as unappetizing as the picture on the box. “Seeing as to how I interrupted your dinner, can I take you out?”
I felt bloo
d rushing into my face. The idea was tempting, but I wasn’t sure how Russ would take an acceptance. I wasn’t sure how I’d take it. An image of Alan Anderson popped unbidden into my mind: His unkempt blond curls, his warm blue eyes, his shy smile, his strong, competent hands. “Not tonight, thanks. It’s been a hard day.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “Another time, then.”
“Sure, another time.” I stood up also. Russ looked almost as disappointed as Mattie when he realized the game was over.
I walked Russ to the door.
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” he said.
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Chapter 9
If anything, the print edition of the Chronicle was worse than the online “Breaking News.”
“Wilkinson OUT!” screamed the headline in the same size font they’d use if intelligent life were found elsewhere in the universe. Where they’d located that picture of Dad-as-Santa looking as though he were auditioning for a role in a Christmas horror flick, I had no idea. I suspected they’d been hoarding it in their basement for years, gloating over it, and waiting for exactly the right moment to bring it out.
You can be sure I don’t subscribe to the Chronicle, but first thing in the morning one of Mrs. D’Angelo’s vast network of gossips personally delivered the poisonous rag to her door. My landlady didn’t even wait for me to try to sneak past her porch. (I sometimes wondered if she had a motion-activated alarm in her house that sounded whenever I stuck my head out.) She hammered on my door when I was going through a yoga routine, trying to work out some of the various kinks that had taken up residence in my joints. Since coming home to Rudolph, I’d been so busy setting up the business I hadn’t had time to look for a gym, and my regular Central Park jogging regimen had crumbled to well-intentioned dust. I’d asked Vicky, as she popped a mouthful of cookie dough into her mouth, if she could recommend a gym. She’d given me a startled look. Vicky, I then remembered, was one of those people, the fortunate few who could eat what they liked, when they liked, and never put on an ounce. Her metabolism was set so high she didn’t need exercise to burn off excess calories. In that she was like my mom. I take more after Dad, whose cheerful round belly and pudgy cheeks were not props beneath his Santa Claus costume.