by Vicki Delany
“The restaurant started off serving the real stuff,” Russ said. “And once it was the hot place to be seen, no one wanted to criticize it.”
“Like the emperor’s new clothes,” I said.
“A seventy-five-buck steak marked up from three-fifty in the food aisle at Mega-Mart.”
“This was Mark’s doing?” Alan asked.
“He was the executive chef,” Russ said. “That means he was the person in charge of the kitchen. He was fired, and the restaurant closed. It would have been a big story, in the New York restaurant world anyway, but the news didn’t get the press it might have. The very day Mark was fired was the same day those people were served poisonous mushrooms on the Lower East Side.”
“I heard about that,” I said. “It was a big deal. The restaurant switched suppliers, and the new guy they got to hunt for woodland mushrooms made a mistake. People were really sick, some spent weeks in the hospital. Didn’t someone die?”
“An elderly man, yes. So when it comes down to it, between mushrooms that kill you versus lettuce not grown in properly aerated soil, no one cared much about Mark’s place. He quietly disappeared.”
“We know where he ended up,” Alan said. “At the Yuletide Inn. You think that has something to do with the death of Gord Olsen?”
“It might,” I said. “Mark’s come here, to Rudolph, to make a new start. Jack might or might not have known about his past, but that doesn’t matter. Not many people would give Mark a job. He needs to stay at the inn, at least until he can build his reputation again.”
“And Gord was going to fire him,” Alan said.
“There is something I’m not sure of,” I said. “I was there when Mark had a fight with Gord. Gord was going to make him cut costs, buy factory bread, that sort of thing. If Mark was the sort to cheat customers, why would he care if they weren’t getting local produce for the restaurant at the inn?”
I fell forward with a yelp as the office door just about sent me flying.
“For heaven’s sake, Merry, do you work here or not?” Jackie yelled. “I’m swamped out there, everyone’s coming in out of the rain, and you’re having a private party. Must be nice to be a boss.”
“We’ll let you get back to it,” Russ said. He and Alan retied scarves and pulled on gloves and headed out.
Chapter 12
A rainy day is good for business. Sometimes. People who are already in town hit the shops if they can’t go skating or tobogganing or walking in the snowy woods. Today we had a very good day at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, but I worried about the upcoming weekend. People who weren’t already in town and seeking winter activities wouldn’t come if the day looked threatening. In Christmas Town at Christmas, we needed crisp, snowy days to put everyone in the holiday mood.
Less than one week remained until December 25th. I could do nothing about the weather, even my dad couldn’t do anything about that, so I decided to think about what a successful day we’d had today.
Jackie hadn’t been kidding when she burst into my office to say she was swamped. I’d emerged to find a virtual madhouse as customers desperately sought that perfect tree ornament or place mat. Cash registers don’t ring cha-ching anymore, which is a pity, but the sound of folding tissue paper and the hum of the credit and debit machine was music to my ears.
All of which is to say, I managed to forget about the troubles facing Vicky, Dad, and Rudolph, and I was in a good mood when we closed the shop, tidied up, and headed home. I’d ordered Chinese takeout from a place on the outskirts of town and enjoyed simply having some quiet time to myself.
Now, I was curled up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate (topped with two melting marshmallows), a dreaming dog, and a good book. I was about to switch out the light when the phone beeped. Incoming.
A text from Vicky: Too late to talk?
Me: Nope. Call.
The phone rang. “You still up?” Vicky asked.
“Just reading. How was it?” I didn’t really have to ask. Her voice sounded light and dreamy.
“Dreadful movie,” she said.
“Waste of an evening, then,” I teased.
“We didn’t stay until the end of the movie.” She giggled. “We went for a coffee at Cranberries and walked in the park down by the lake for ages. He just left.”
“I know walking in the rain is supposed to be romantic, although I’ve never seen the appeal myself, but in the freezing rain?”
“The rain stopped a while ago. The temperature’s dropped below freezing again. Some of the snow might even stay.”
“Did you make another date?”
“Promises only,” she said. “It’s going to be busy at the restaurant up until New Year’s. But he wants to see me again. I want to see him again. Oh, Merry, this is it! This is the real thing!”
“You’ve said that before,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but this time it’s really real.”
“Slowly, slowly,” I said.
“That’s why I have you,” she said, laughing. “To keep me from getting ahead of myself.”
That had always been our relationship. Wild, impulsive Vicky and no-nonsense, practical Merry. Vicky pushed me into doing things I wouldn’t even consider on my own; I held her back, or at least I tried to, from letting impulse get the better of common sense. This time, I was worried about a lot more than her impulsive nature. I was worried about her delicate heart.
“Has Mark told you anything about his past?” I asked.
“We talked for hours, Merry.”
“Did he say why he left the city?”
“Why are you asking that?” A note of suspicion crept into her voice.
“Did he?”
“He landed his dream job as executive chef at a major Manhattan restaurant. The owner turned out to be not entirely ethical, and the restaurant closed less than a year later. He decided he was fed up with the big city and wanted to try something new. I’m so glad he did!”
“That’s nice.”
“Merry, do you know something you’re not telling me?”
“I want you to take care, that’s all. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Goes without saying. So why are you saying it this time?” she asked.
“He is under suspicion for the murder of Gord Olsen, remember?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t do it.”
I took a deep breath. “You don’t know that, sweetie.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do know that. I know it the same way you know your dad didn’t kill Gord. Good night, Merry.”
“Vicky, I . . .” She’d hung up.
I threw my book across the room. It hit the framed photograph that stands on my night table, and the picture crashed to the floor. Mattie woke with a start and let out a sharp bark. “Oh, be quiet,” I said. He whined at the tone of my voice and cocked his head. I cursed myself and crawled across the bed to pick up the picture of my family. Fortunately, the glass hadn’t shattered. I studied the photo. It had been taken the last time we’d all been at home for Christmas, before we children headed out to make our own way in the world. Dad wore one of his vast collection of tasteless Christmas sweaters and a red hat with a white pom-pom dangling on the end. Mom was dressed in a glimmering silver floor-length gown and draped with pearls, and my sisters and my brother and I were in our best clothes. I remembered the taking of this photo. The prime rib and roast potatoes had gone cold while Dad fussed with the delayed setting on his camera and agonized over the best placement of everyone. Chris elbowed Eve in the ribs, she kicked him in return, Carole stuck out her tongue, and Mom had said to Dad, “For heaven’s sake, take the blasted picture while I still have my youth.”
Good times. My family.
I threw off the covers, climbed out of bed, and stomped into the kitchen. I switched the kettle on to make tea and dropped into a chair
at the table. My lovely, peaceful mood was completely shattered, and I was now wide awake. I pulled a pad of paper and a broken pencil over. I wrote a single word at the top in big block letters. Suspects.
The only way I could get this mess out of my head and have any hope of being able to sleep was to write it all down. Feeling somewhat like Nancy Drew, I started filling in names. And there were a lot of them. I wrote Noel Wilkinson at the top and put a line through it. Then Vicky Casey and another line. They were followed by Mark Grosse, Grace Olsen, Irene Olsen, Sue-Anne Morrow, Randy Baumgartner (or other Muddites). At the bottom I wrote Persons Unknown. I studied the names and thought about means, motive, and opportunity. That was no help, because everyone on my list had all three of those things.
The tea had gone cold, Mattie had been let out for another pee, and my head was still a jumble when I finally gave up and went back to bed. I decided I had to trust Detective Simmonds. She seemed like a smart woman, and she had access to far more information than I did.
* * *
I woke with a crick in my neck and in a thoroughly bad mood. I opened one eye. The room was still pitch-dark and Mattie was murmuring in his sleep. I lay on my back and looked at the ceiling. No insights into either the Olsen murder or the sad state of my love life were to be found there, so I got up. Before showering and dressing for a day at the shop, I took Mattie for a particularly long morning walk. It was so early, all the lights were off downstairs, and Mrs. D’Angelo wasn’t lying in wait for me. The happy dog bounded on ahead and the not-so-happy woman trudged along behind. Yesterday’s rain had frozen overnight, making the walk highly treacherous. The sun was struggling to make an appearance in a dark, cloudy sky when we turned toward home. As I put my key in the lock, a drop fell onto my head. I glanced up to see a big icicle melting. Not good: the temperatures were rising again and those dark clouds were fat with rain.
Even after the long walk, I was one of the first people on Jingle Bell Lane that morning. Of the few people I passed, no one looked any happier than I felt. I tried to cheer myself up by humming Christmas songs under my breath. All my best singing is humming, much to my talented mother’s dismay. Still, she couldn’t be too disappointed in how her children turned out. My sister Carole was currently touring Europe in the chorus of a production of Carmen, my other sister, Eve, was trying to get her foot in the door in Hollywood, and my baby brother, Chris, was studying stage design in New York City. Of the four Wilkinson siblings, only Chris and I could make it home for Christmas this year. The irony of the Christmas-loving Wilkinsons having children with the sorts of jobs that meant they spent the holidays far from home was not lost on me or my parents.
I had my head down and my eyes focused on the slushy sidewalk, looking out for icy traps. I arrived at the shop and fumbled in my pocket for my keys. I put my key in the lock, turned it, and pushed at the door. Only then did I lift my head.
My breathing stopped and my heart rate sped up.
A stuffed toy Santa Claus about a foot tall with black button eyes, woolly beard, and a red suit made out of felt dangled right at my eye level, from a nail hammered into the door. A rope had been tied around the doll’s neck. Santa hung there, his head lolling to one side.
I grabbed the hideous thing and pulled as hard as I could. The nail came out easily, and I was clutching the doll. I ran into the shop and slammed the door behind me. I threw the doll onto the floor and bent over, resting shaking hands on my knees, my breath coming in short, hard gasps. I was drenched in sweat.
When I’d regained some control over my limbs and my breathing, I straightened and glanced around my shop. My nerves tingled, but all was quiet. The few lights left on overnight, on the tree and in the window, glowed peacefully. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The last thing we do before locking up is run the vacuum cleaner: the floor gets filthy with the onslaught of snow or mud-covered boots all day. I could see no fresh footprints or tracks on the floor. In the back, all the lights were off. I grabbed a heavy glass candlestick out of a display. My heart pounded so hard I could almost feel it pushing against my ribs. The floorboards of the old building creaked beneath my weight. I took a deep breath, threw open the door to my office so hard it hit the wall, and slapped the light switch. Nothing other than the usual chaos, and there was nowhere for anyone to hide. I didn’t think someone would be in the shop—why leave a warning on the front door?—but I was still careful. I checked the restroom. The window was too small for anyone but a child to get through, and the bolt was in place and undisturbed. In the storage room boxes were piled high, but the room wasn’t very big, and one glance told me no one was attempting to conceal themselves. Only when every light in the place had been switched on and I was sure no one, or no other surprises, waited for me did I return to my office and drop into the chair.
I sat there for a few moments, trying to collect my thoughts. Then I pushed myself to my feet and ventured back to the main room. I stood in the entrance, eyeing the thing lying on the floor. I approached it hesitantly and gave it a nudge with my foot. I almost expected the doll to leap into the air, brandishing a knife pulled from his pocket, but it simply lay there, limp and unthreatening. Nothing more than a cheap toy Santa. The rope around its neck only a cord used to keep a decoration in place, not the hangman’s noose it had appeared to be on my front door.
But I had no doubt that someone had deliberately left me a little gift.
This had to be a warning. Plain and simple. But a warning about what? I was nothing more than a shop owner in a small town in Upstate New York. I wasn’t interfering with a terrorist cell or butting into the domain of the mob.
Was I?
I bent over and carefully picked up the doll. I studied it, looking for some sort of message. Nothing. The label said “Made in China.” I didn’t sell this particular type of Santa Claus toy in my shop, but it was the sort of thing available just about anywhere at this time of year.
I put the doll on the counter and pulled out my phone. My initial thought was to call my dad. My dad would know what to do, but I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the digits. Dad had enough to worry about these days. I punched in another number.
“Mornin’, Merry,” Alan Anderson said.
“Uh . . . good morning.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes! I mean, yes. Do you have time to come into town?”
“Are you at the shop?”
“Yes.”
“I’m leaving now. Be there in fifteen.”
“Okay,” I said.
Alan hadn’t asked if I was okay, if I needed anything, if I was sure. He just said he’d come. Because I asked him to.
I snapped a few pictures of the doll, and then took it behind the counter, wrapped it in a clear plastic bag, and shoved it into a drawer. I then slammed the drawer shut. It was nothing but a harmless doll, but I didn’t want to look at it anymore. I knew I should call Detective Simmonds, but I feared she’d arrive with lights and sirens, maybe a full CSI team, and spend the day fingerprinting my front door, looking for clues among the toy trains and wooden soldiers, the dishes and linens, the tree ornaments and mantel decorations. That would certainly attract a crowd to my shop. A crowd of the ghoulish and the curious. Serious shoppers would run a mile in the opposite direction.
I glanced around for things to keep me busy while waiting for Alan. The jewelry display had been thoroughly gone through yesterday. I was arranging winter-themed earrings on a jewelry tree when a hammering sounded on the door. I opened it a crack, and Alan slipped in.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s happened?” His handsome face was full of concern, and he put his strong, scarred hands on my shoulders.
I could feel the warmth of him spreading all the way through to my heart. I smiled, momentarily forgetting what I’d called him about. Unfortunately, I remembered all too quickly. “I want to show you something.” I reluct
antly moved out of his grip and went behind the counter to take the doll out of the drawer. I held it up, still in the bag.
Alan’s face was a question mark.
“When I arrived this morning to open up, I found a surprise. I can’t help but think it’s intended as a message. It was hanging from a nail, like this.” I used my own hands to illustrate a body hanging from a noose. I even stuck out my tongue for emphasis. “This rope was tied around its neck.”
Alan reached for it but pulled his hand back as though it had come too close to a flame. “Has anyone else seen this?”
I shook my head.
“Call the police.”
“I don’t want them here, making a big fuss. They’ll close down the shop, and who knows how much business I’ll lose.”
“This isn’t a joke, Merry. It’s a threat.”
“I know.”
“Next time they might not stop at a warning.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “What does it mean?”
I was standing behind the counter, facing the shop. Alan stretched out his hands. I’d probably caught him eating breakfast. He’d stuffed his feet into boots but hadn’t taken the time to tie the laces. He smelled of woodsmoke and sawdust. He hadn’t shaved yet, his stubble was thick and dark, and his mop of curly blond hair mussed. His cheekbones were sharply outlined in his thin face, and the look in his blue eyes was . . . more than I could interpret. “It means, Merry,” he said, in a deep, low voice, “that if anything happened to you, I’d . . .” he left the sentence unfinished.
“Alan,” I said.
He coughed and took a step backward, color high in his cheeks. “Do you have any idea who might have done this? Anyone you’ve argued with lately, or annoyed for some reason?”
Other than my best friend? I buried that thought quickly. “No more than usual.”
He gave me a tight smile. “Whatever ‘usual’ means.”
“It has to have something to do with the Gord Olsen murder,” I said.