by Vicki Delany
A few more customers came in, and I told them to let me know if they needed help. I try to be friendly without being pushy. I myself have been known to leave a store when faced with an overly enthusiastic “greeter.”
Jackie was soon back, with a medium latte for me and an extra-large concoction topped by a mountain of whipped cream for her. I eyed her slim figure, wondering when all the calories she consumed would start taking their toll. “What’s the big news?” I lifted the lid off my latte, breathed in the scent of hot milk, and took that first welcome, delicious sip.
“Kyle has a new job.”
While we talked, we kept our voices down and our eyes on browsing customers, ready to leap into action the moment anyone seemed in need of attention.
“That is good news,” I said. “Glad to hear it.” Kyle was Jackie’s boyfriend. What she saw in that grumbling, lazy, chronically underemployed guy, I never did know. Jackie was young and pretty with a cheerful, bouncy personality. She went through boyfriends at an amazing rate but lately she seemed to be sticking with Kyle. She could do so much better. But, who am I to judge anyone else in matters of the heart? I sure could have done a lot better than wasting years on the miserable slug who dumped me the moment the granddaughter of the owner of the magazine empire where we were employed waved her inheritance-expecting finger in his direction.
I took a deep drink of my coffee.
“Kyle’s going to be Santa for the rest of the season!”
I sprayed coffee all over Jackie’s shirt.
“Hey!” She leapt out of the way.
“What!”
“Jeez, don’t get your knickers in a knot, Merry. Kyle’ll be a great Santa. He’ll need a lot of padding to fit into your dad’s costume, but he can do that. Kyle really loves kids.” Her voice trailed off on the last sentence, as though she was not entirely sure of her facts.
“For one thing,” I said through clenched teeth, “my dad’s costume belongs to him, not to the town. I don’t suppose anyone told Kyle that. And second . . .”
“Merry,” Jackie said, for once being the more sensible one. She jerked her head toward the customers, all of whom had stopped browsing to watch us.
“Oops,” I said. “Coffee was too hot. You’d better go into the back and wipe your shirt down.”
“Okay,” she said. I followed her. She tried to shut the door to our tiny restroom, but I stuck my foot in it. “Kyle cannot be Santa. My father is Santa.”
“He’s not now, Merry. The job was advertised. Kyle was the most qualified applicant.” She smiled at herself in the mirror and tilted her head to one side. I figured Kyle was the only applicant. No one else would dare.
Jackie finished admiring herself, wet a paper towel, and began swiping at the stain. It was a cotton shirt in a deep shade of beige. Shouldn’t be too hard to remove the coffee spatter. “If I can’t get this stain out, Merry, you’re going to have to buy me a new blouse.”
“Ask Kyle what he’s going to do for a costume. He’ll end up paying more than he’ll earn. If he can get one in time.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “He made two hundred and fifty bucks the other day selling a picture he took with his phone. He’s thinking he might become a photographer and get himself a real camera, but I don’t know. They can be expensive. As for the costume, not a problem. The Nook has some cheap Santa costumes in stock.”
“The Nook! Those ‘suits’ have plastic pants in one-size-fits-all! The beard ties around the ears with string!”
“Hello?” called a voice from the shop. “Can I get some help here?”
I gave Jackie one last growl and went out front.
“Do you have those plates in blue?” a woman asked me, pointing to a display of white china cocktail plates decorated with lightly sketched sprigs of green and red holly.
“No,” I said. I might have added, “They’re Christmas plates, of course they don’t come in blue, you fool,” but I did not.
She left without buying anything.
Jackie came out of the back. Her shirtfront was sodden. “I have to go home and change,” she said.
I grumbled. She could have just dabbed at the coffee marks with her damp paper towel, she didn’t have to wash the darn thing while still wearing it. I suspected she was off to tell Kyle that others might not receive the news of his job opportunity with as much joy as she had. My suspicions were confirmed when she pulled her phone out of her purse the moment the door swung behind her and threw me a guilty sideways look before ducking her head down and scurrying away.
A drop of rain fell on her head. Then another. Cars kicked up slush as they drove down Jingle Bell Lane. It was raining. Oh joy.
If Sue-Anne wasn’t careful, she’d ruin Rudolph’s reputation as the place to bring your kids to meet Santa. I couldn’t blame her for the rain, but I sure could blame her for replacing Dad with a slacker twenty-something with a tie-on beard and a plastic costume.
Sue-Anne. Never mind the town’s reputation—what about Dad’s? How far would Sue-Anne go to ruin the person she saw as her only rival for mayor? Not that Dad wanted to be mayor again, but when one was blinded by ambition it could be hard to realize that not everyone was equally obsessed. I’d considered Sue-Anne as a suspect in a murder once before. Just because she hadn’t done it that time, didn’t mean she didn’t do it this time.
A handful of customers came into the shop. A few people bought some small items, but I wasn’t busy enough to get my mind off the matter at hand.
Jackie eventually came back, having changed into a short, tight skirt and a sparkly blue T-shirt under a cropped jacket. I glanced out the window and saw Kyle hurry past, heading for Rudolph’s Gift Nook.
“You’ll be pleased to hear, Merry,” she said, “that I took my blouse to Mom’s and she said she should be able to get the stain out. I sure hope so. It’s one of my favorites and it cost a lot more than I normally spend on clothes.” She let out a martyred sigh.
Thinking about Sue-Anne had reminded me I had another suspect in mind. Now that Jackie was back to mind the shop, I called Detective Simmonds. She answered on the first ring. I told her I had something to discuss with her about the death of Gord Olsen, and she told me to come on down to the police station.
“I’m going out for a while,” I said.
“Where?” Jackie asked.
“None of your business,” I replied.
Outside, the rain was falling steadily. The snow was melting into slimy puddles on the road and sidewalks and dripping from the eaves of the buildings. People hurried by, heads buried in coat collars, feet sloshing through puddles. Cars kicked up icy mud.
I ran across the street, but before going to the police station, I swung into Victoria’s Bake Shoppe. I wasn’t exactly planning to bribe an officer of the law, but I’d never finished my latte and it would be rude not to take one to Detective Simmonds.
The lunch rush was over and only a handful of people were sipping soup and munching on sandwiches when I came into the bakery. Marjorie was behind the counter, rearranging the display to fill in the numerous gaps. I hadn’t intended to get anything to eat, but the moment the scent of baking bread and hot soup hit me, I was starving. No dinner last night and a rudely interrupted breakfast at the inn this morning. I needed to be alert and on my toes if I was talking to the sharp Detective Simmonds, not on the verge of collapsing from hunger.
I studied what was left. Exactly two mince tarts, my favorites. I pointed to them. “Can you pack those to go, Marjorie? And two coffees, please. One with cream and the other black.” I put packets of sugar and creamer into the bag for Simmonds, as I didn’t know how she took her coffee.
Vicky came out of the back, wiping floury hands on her apron. “Thought I heard your voice,” she said. Her entire face was lit up and she had a spring in her step. I raised one eyebrow in question.
&nb
sp; “I just got off the phone this very minute,” she said.
“Did you win the lottery?”
“Even better.”
“And . . .”
“And,” she said, laughing, “Mark asked me for a date. A real date. Tonight.” She lifted her arms in the air, stood on her tippy-toes, and twirled in circles. We’d been in ballet class together as kids. Only one of us had any talent. It hadn’t been me.
I wasn’t as thrilled for my best friend as I should have been. I remembered last night, Russ’s warning about Mark. “What are you doing on this date?”
“He has the night off, so we’re going to meet for an early dinner and then go to a movie.” Her smile stretched from one side of her face to the other. “Now, to decide what to wear. It’s only a casual dinner, so I don’t want to look like I’ve dressed up or anything. Do you think jeans are okay, Merry?”
“I think an ankle-length skirt and a high neckline would be appropriate,” Marjorie said.
“Don’t you have work to do, Aunt Marjorie?”
“I am working,” she said, tucking the mince tarts into a take-out box. “I’m serving this customer right here.”
“Gotta run.” I handed over my money. “Catch you later. Call me in the morning and tell me how it went.”
“She’ll call you when she gets home,” Marjorie said. “Which will be ten minutes after the movie gets out.”
“You’re no fun,” Vicky said as the door swung shut behind me.
At the police station, I told Nancy that Detective Simmonds was waiting for me. “Name?” she barked.
“Merry, that’s M-e-r-r . . . Never mind, here she is now. Good afternoon, Detective.”
Simmonds nodded to Nancy, and the receptionist buzzed me through to the inner sanctum.
“I brought coffee,” I said, holding up the evidence.
“Thanks, I could use one about now.” Simmonds led me down the hallway to her office. It wasn’t much of an office, more a desk piled high with papers in the corner of a room full of equally disheveled desks. The decor was fading, chipped industrial beige and the art the very latest in wanted posters. I took the offered seat and glanced around the room. “You could do with some holiday cheer in here.”
The corners of her mouth turned up. “I’ll check for that line in the budget.” I handed her the coffee and opened the box of tarts. We each took one. “I’ve put on about ten pounds since moving to Rudolph,” she said. “We are situated way too close to that bakery.” She bit into the mince tart. “Marvelous.”
And it was. The pastry was light and flaky, the filling rich and sweet, packed full of dried fruits. The tarts had been crowned with a Christmas tree cut out of pastry and sprinkled with sugar.
A photo featured prominently on Simmonds’s desk. A standard school picture of a young girl, all freckles and a big toothy grin.
Simmonds glanced at the picture, and her face melted into soft lines. She looked almost human. “Charlotte. My daughter.”
“She’s lovely.”
“She is.” The detective shook off the sentiment and her hard, professional shell fell back in place. “What do you want to tell me?”
“Irene Olsen. Gord’s wife. She’s still at the inn and she’s in the mood to stir up trouble. I know the police always suspect the spouse first, so I thought you should be aware of that.”
“You know how the police operate, do you? What, from your extensive watching of CSI: Miami?”
I refused to be intimidated. “You can’t tell me that’s not true.”
“Go on,” she said.
“So, I thought . . . well, that I’d ask what you know about Irene.”
Simmonds leaned back in her chair and made a steeple of her fingers. “You’re tenacious, Merry, I’ll give you that.”
“I know for a fact my father did not kill Gord Olsen. Whether in cahoots with Grace or anyone else.”
“Who said anything about Grace?”
“Uh . . . I’m simply making a point,” I said, intimidated.
She studied me for a long time. I tried not to fidget. “The marriage between Irene and Gord Olsen had its difficulties,” she said at last. “There have been incidents of domestic disturbances at their home. No physical assaults, as far as the police are aware, but pots and crockery thrown, and one occurrence in which Mr. Olsen charged at Mrs. Olsen with the lawn mower, and she ran screaming through the neighbor’s hedge. The neighbor called the police, but by the time officers arrived, Mrs. Olsen had returned to her own home. The homeowner threatened to sue the Olsens for the cost of repairing a valuable hedge. To be honest, Merry, I hadn’t been aware there was such a thing as a valuable hedge. Must be a California thing.”
“So Irene’s definitely in the frame then,” I said.
“It’s not unknown for couples with a history of fighting to end up killing one another,” she said, “but I have to point out that when it happens, it’s more often than not loud and messy, and the survivor is immediately overcome by guilt and regret. As far as we can determine, Mr. Olsen was killed by a person who followed him into the garden quietly, struck quickly, and left. Making no fuss.”
“What do you suppose Gord was doing in the garden at night, anyway?” I said. “He didn’t strike me as the type to be contemplative.”
She studied my face. I sat quietly, hoping I wasn’t about to be tossed out of the police station. Instead, to my surprise, Simmonds smiled slightly and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Olsen had dinner at A Touch of Holly, here in Rudolph. According to the restaurant staff, the couple didn’t behave at all out of the ordinary. They didn’t speak to anyone there, other than the hostess and their waiter. They ate their meal, largely in silence, and drank one bottle of wine between the two of them. The only memorable thing about the Olsens was the insultingly small tip they left, after consuming an expensive wine and dishes from the top of the price range. If you ever want your visit to be remembered by restaurant staff, Merry, a miserly tip is more memorable than a large one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
“According to Mrs. Olsen, they came straight back to the inn after dinner. Irene Olsen retired to her room, and we’ve determined that Gord made the rounds of the hotel. He told the receptionist to fasten the top buttons of her blouse; popped into the kitchen, where he got into an argument with the chef. Basically, he was sticking his nose into anything and everything and upsetting more than a few of the staff. People were busy and can’t say precisely what time he was around. Whether Gord Olsen went into the gardens by himself to check out something, or if someone accompanied him, I don’t know. Perhaps someone asked him for a quiet word. No one has come forward to say they saw Gord going into the garden. Our investigation continues. Now, I’ve told you more than I probably should have, Merry. Thanks for coming in.”
I didn’t take the hint. “What’s Gord and Irene’s financial situation? Maybe she didn’t kill him in a moment of passion, but she thought it all out ahead of time. Premeditated.”
“I’m not going to reveal the details of the Olsen bank account to you, Merry. Suffice it to say, I’ve known people to kill over what would seem to us like ridiculously small amounts, but I don’t believe that’s a factor in this case. Now, I’ve work to do.”
“Mark Grosse.”
She raised one eyebrow. “What about him?”
“He’s new to town. You say you suspect my dad because he had an argument with Gord. Well, so did Mark, and more than once, it would seem. What have you found out about him?” I wasn’t trying to throw Mark under the bus. But the way I looked at it, there were a lot of suspects. The problem was that many of them were people I cared about: Dad. Vicky. Grace. I had to make Simmonds understand that she needed to be looking at everyone. If Gord had tried interfering in Mark’s kitchen the night he died, was it conceivable for Mark to have grabbed a ready-to-hand knife and fol
lowed his boss’s son outside?
“The way I normally conduct an investigation, Merry,” Simmonds said, “is that I ask the questions. Now, I appreciate the coffee and the treat, but I suspect we both have work to get back to. Thank you for your time.” She tossed her coffee cup into the trash. The basket was about four feet from her chair, and the cup sailed in a graceful arc to land directly in the middle.
“Good shot,” I said.
“High school state basketball champion.”
“Being Santa Claus is important not only to my dad,” I said, “but even more to the town. The children’s weekend’s coming up, and the guy they’ve found to replace Dad is going to be a major disaster. Rudolph lives by its reputation as Christmas Town. If we lose that, we’ll be nothing more than another decaying postindustrial town.”
“I understand, Merry, and I admire your passion. But that’s not my concern. Finding a killer is the only thing on my mind.”
“You didn’t have to make such a big thing of it,” I said. “My dad would have been happy to answer your questions. You didn’t have to march him out of the council office like he was a crooked politician on some sort of perp walk. Right after you’d been in my shop, too. That wasn’t fair.”
“You’re right.”
“I am?”
“In my defense, I didn’t ask anyone to go around and get him. I had questions about that knife, and I told a junior officer to phone Mr. Wilkinson and ask him to drop in when he had a moment. My instructions were misunderstood. It won’t happen again.”
An image of Candice Campbell popped into my head. I had no doubt the officer in question was that sneaky little rat. “In that case, can’t you tell the town council Dad’s not under suspicion? Then they’ll take him back.” I smiled at her, willing her to realize how sensible I was being.
She did not smile back. “The thing is, Merry, your father is under suspicion. He is, despite your attempts to deflect my attention, my prime suspect.”