by Vicki Delany
“Okay, okay.” I waved my arms for emphasis. “I admit it’s possible some curious hotel guest wanted to have a peek. Maybe they thought the cottage was available for rent. But to come right up on the deck and peer in the windows? That’s creepy.”
“It’s creepy, all right, but not uncommon. Folks sometimes think if they’re paying money at a hotel they have the right to stick their nose into everything. And I do mean everything.”
“What about the boot prints?” I said. “They’re still clear enough to make out details of the tread. Do they match the ones at the scene of Gord’s death?”
“No.”
“No? Are you sure?”
“Yes, Merry, I am sure. The tread on those formed a hash pattern. These are completely different. I’ll grant the size is similar, but with winter boots it can be hard to tell. Some people buy big boots to leave room for thick socks, some do not. Men’s and women’s snow boots are very similar, unlike most shoes.”
“If the killer has any brains at all, he’ll know you’re looking for his—or her—boots, so he would have gotten rid of them. Were these ones new, did you notice? You can tell by the tracks if the treads are worn down, can’t you?
“Merry, stay out of my investigation.”
“But . . .”
“No buts.” She pulled her keys out of her coat pocket. “I’m going back to town, and I’ll file a report on this.”
“Aren’t you at least going to fingerprint the glass doors?”
“Merry, there’s no point. In this weather it would be unusual for anyone to be outside without gloves.” She held up her own hands as evidence. “I’ll ask for a patrol car to swing by the hotel regularly.”
She climbed into her own vehicle and drove away.
Chapter 14
Iwanted to stop at the bakery and try to make up with Vicky, but by the time I got back to town, the “Closed” sign was in place and the lights were switched off. Instead, I went home and let Mattie out. We played with a toy made of thick, twisted rope in the backyard for a long time. Unlike the pristine expanse of untouched snow at Grace and Jack’s, my yard was so churned up not a single foot—or paw—print could be distinguished from another. As I alternately threw the toy, chased a happy Mattie for it, and attempted to wrestle it from his slobbering jaws, I started to feel a bit better. I was furious at Detective Simmonds. She’d almost come right out and said I was overreacting, if not actually causing trouble in an attempt to focus attention on myself.
Mattie grabbed the rope and galloped in joyous circles around the yard, swinging the colorful toy from side to side.
I knew I should just let it all go. Someone, after all, had warned me to do exactly that. What could the hanging Santa doll have been but a warning?
Time to let the police take care of it. It was their job, after all. It was what Diane Simmonds wanted me to do.
That would be the sensible thing. But I didn’t know if I could be sensible. I cared too much about this town. About the people in it. My dad. Vicky. From what I’d observed, Simmonds was a good cop. Smart, dedicated, committed. But she was still a newcomer, an outsider, and from a big city, to boot. What would she know about the small-town ties and complicated rivalries that were the lifeblood of Rudolph?
Mattie gave a single decisive bark. I blinked and refocused my attention. The rope was at my feet, and Mattie’s head was cocked in what I was beginning to recognize as his exasperated look when I failed to concentrate on an important matter at hand. “Okay, okay.” I bent over to pick the toy up. He lunged for it; we grabbed it at the same time and wrestled for it.
I ended up face-first in the snow, legs and arms kicking, laughing. I rolled onto my back. It was getting late and the sun was a weak, white ball low in a pewter sky. At this latitude, this close to the solstice, it’s dark before five o’clock. Mattie’s face appeared above me. His warm brown eyes danced with the sheer joy of being alive. He licked my nose. I reached up and pulled him to me and wrapped him in a giant hug.
“Am I interrupting a tender moment?” Wendy said.
Mattie ran to greet her, and I struggled to my feet. “Playtime that went horribly wrong.” I shook snow off.
The snowsuited bundle in Wendy’s arms squirmed. My neighbor held her baby out so she could greet Mattie. The young dog was amazing around the little girl. His nose twitched, but he didn’t try to lick her face, and he let her run her pudgy hands through his fur.
“Couple more months,” Wendy said, “and they’ll be able to play together.”
“I can’t wait. I’m going to feel the results of that fall tomorrow.” I called for the dog, and we walked upstairs with Wendy and Tina. “How are plans for the weekend going?” I asked.
Wendy pulled a face. “A couple of the councillors paid a call on your dad. Asked him to come and be Santa.”
“That’s great.”
“He said he wouldn’t go against the decision of the acting mayor. Sue-Anne herself has to ask him to.”
More like crawl on her hands and knees over shards of broken ice, I thought. My dad could be stubborn sometimes.
“Plans, such as they are, are under way to move Santa and the games into the community center. The shop and restaurant owners who were going to have treats for sale on the sidewalk are still intending to, unless the rain is bad enough to drive everyone inside.”
“No change in the weather forecast?”
“According to Sue-Anne’s assistant, who checks it about every five minutes, it’s not looking good.”
“Speaking of shops, I need to get back to mine. My employees are on the verge of mutiny.”
“I’ll be dreaming of a winter wonderland tonight,” Wendy said.
I fed Mattie and made myself a cheese sandwich to take to the shop. Jackie might grumble and complain, but I paid her well over minimum wage just so she’d put up with me. And because she was an excellent salesperson. She had a way of delighting the men with her pretty looks and flirtatious charm that somehow didn’t turn their wives off.
I called my dad before going to the shop. Simmonds might not think someone creeping around Jack’s house important, but I did. I hadn’t wanted to worry Dad about the warning on my door, and I still didn’t plan to tell him or Mom, but Jack was his friend. He’d be furious if he found out I’d kept this from him.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “How are you?”
“Dreadful. I was about to take the phone off the hook. Every one of my parents has called, sometimes more than once, about my canceling the weekend concerts.”
“Are they mad at you?”
“Sentiment seems to be running around eighty percent in my favor. Some understand that I have to side with my husband, some simply think the town is making a mistake. Unfortunately, it’s the other twenty percent who make the loudest noise. ‘Suzie and Johnny have practiced so hard . . .’ and on and on they go. You’d think a talent scout from American Idol was coming to Rudolph with the sole intention of hearing them. They are not at all mollified when I inform them that their child’s class will be included in an extended version of my Epiphany concert at St. Jude’s. One parent informed me that they are Baptist so they do not want their child singing in a Catholic church. I informed her that I am not a warrior goddess but I have sung the role of a Valkyrie.”
Sometimes I wasn’t so sure my mother wasn’t a warrior goddess. “You tell ’em, Mom. I’m calling to speak to Dad. Is he there?”
“He is still ensconced in his study. I’m starting to worry, dear. A delegation came earlier from the town council and he practically threw them out of the house.”
She passed the phone to my father, and I told him about what had happened at the Olsens’. He didn’t waste time saying “are you sure” and “perhaps you imagined it.” “As far as I know,” I said, “Irene’s still staying at the inn. I suppose there’s nothing suspicious about that—t
he police have yet to release Gord’s body and Jack is her father-in-law—but I would have thought that after that scene over breakfast at the restaurant yesterday, she’d find more welcoming accommodations.”
“I doubt she’s paying at the Yuletide,” Dad said.
“I didn’t consider that.”
“Do you know if the caregiver they’ve hired is with him around the clock?”
“No. Grace told me they’ve only taken on an afternoon shift so she can get some work done at the inn without leaving Jack alone.”
“I’m going there now. I’ll spend the night and stay with Jack tomorrow until the nurse comes.”
“That’s nice of you, Dad, but you can’t move in permanently.”
“It’s not as if,” he said, “I have anything else to do this weekend.”
“Oh right. You have to consider that they might never catch the person who killed Gord.”
“I’ll take it one day at a time, honeybunch.”
We hung up, and I went back to work.
I might as well not have bothered, business was so slow that evening.
Chapter 15
I expect every single person in Rudolph, New York, checked the weather report the moment they got out of bed on Friday morning. I did, and it was still saying thirty-three degrees and a chance of freezing rain for Saturday and Sunday.
The children’s weekend didn’t kick off until Saturday morning, but all the shops on Jingle Bell Lane were putting on a welcoming party atmosphere tonight with treats like cookies, hot cider, and candy canes available for shoppers and their kids. I hadn’t spoken to Vicky yesterday, and I felt bad about that. She was supposed to be dropping trays of gingerbread cookies off at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures in the afternoon. I was looking forward to apologizing and giving her a hug.
I had no reason to get to work early, so I took Mattie for a long walk and lingered over a leisurely breakfast of granola and yogurt until I couldn’t justify lingering anymore. It would be a long day at the store, as we were open until ten tonight. Saturday and Sunday, I was planning to wear my Mrs. Claus costume of ankle-length red skirt, white blouse, red and white checked cap with a mop of white curls attached, and plain glass spectacles. The outfit made me look thirty pounds heavier and twenty years older. Or was it twenty pounds heavier and thirty years older? Today, I decided to dress a bit nicer for the shop than I usually did. I chose a black dress over opaque black tights, with a red leather jacket and red jewelry. I couldn’t go for heels as I’d be on my feet for twelve hours, but black ballet flats would be okay.
When I came around the corner of the house, Mrs. D’Angelo’s front door flew open and she marched onto the porch.
“Morning, Merry. I’d say good day, but I don’t think it’s going to be, is it?”
“You never know,” I said. “Weather reports have been wrong before.”
“Even if the weather does improve, the death of poor Jack’s son is still hanging over our town.” She wore her dressing gown and her ever-present phone was fastened to her hip, but the expression on her face was so sad I stopped in my tracks. She’d said “poor Jack’s son,” not “Jack’s poor son.” “Do you know Jack Olsen well, Mrs. D’Angelo?”
“Not so much these days, dear. We’re of an age, though. I knew him quite well back in the day. My Howard and I were friends with Jack and Karen.” I had no idea if Howard was Mr. D’Angelo, but that didn’t matter now. Karen was Jack’s first wife. Gord’s mother.
“Did you?” I said. “I suppose that made things difficult when Jack and Karen divorced.”
“You’d have thought so, but none of us were surprised. Every woman in town felt dreadfully sorry for Karen. Jack was quite the cad in those days, I can tell you.”
“In what way?”
She tapped the side of her nose. I smiled expectantly. “One for the ladies, I mean. In high school he was a heartbreaker, and being married didn’t slow him down much. He had affairs constantly. Jack Olsen was always the talk of the town. Everyone knew, except for Karen, of course. The wives are always the last to know.” Her face twisted in disapproval, and I took a guess as to what had happened to Mr. Howard D’Angelo. “I finally decided I couldn’t bear to stand by and watch poor, dear Karen being the butt of jokes all around town. She needed to know, and it was my duty as her friend not to let her hear about it from people spouting mean-spirited gossip.”
I kept my face impassive. I had no doubt my landlady had enjoyed every minute of her “duty.”
“They divorced and Karen moved away with the boy. I thought we were friends, but she cut off all contact with everyone in Rudolph. We never heard so much as a word from Karen again. When Jack up and married Grace, we were surprised at how suddenly he changed his ways. He seemed devoted to Grace. Still does. Of course, a leopard rarely changes its spots, so perhaps Jack learned how to be discreet.” She sniffed in disapproval at the very idea of discretion.
I didn’t agree. If Mrs. D’Angelo didn’t know about it, it didn’t happen.
“You’re saying some people had reason not to like Jack. That was a long time ago, but people can have long memories.” I was thinking of discarded girlfriends, enraged husbands or fathers. Had someone waited all these years to get revenge on Jack? It seemed unlikely, but Jack’s heart attack did put him in a perilous position, and perhaps his enemy saw his chance for revenge, or they felt driven to do what they believed they had to do while Jack was still alive.
Then again, carrying a grudge for more than thirty years and murdering a man’s son for no reason but cold revenge seemed beyond all reason to me.
“Long memories, yes. And there are reminders, of course.” Mrs. D’Angelo fluffed her helmet of steel gray hair. Today the peignoir beneath the tatty dressing gown was a pale peach concoction.
“What sort of reminders?”
“Where there are affairs, the men sometimes leave little traces of themselves behind.”
“Huh?” Then I got it. “You mean babies?”
“There were rumors, of course.” Her face fell. “But nothing more than that.” Her phone rang and Mrs. D’Angelo had it out in a flash. “I have to take this, dear. Marie! You will not believe what Merry Wilkinson told me.”
I walked away. As far as I could remember I hadn’t told Mrs. D’Angelo anything, but that never stopped her from leaping to her own conclusions or making up rumors out of whole cloth. I pushed the gossip about Jack out of my mind. If someone had been waiting for years to get revenge on Jack, I could see no reason why they’d kill Gord.
I trudged into town. Cars passed, kicking up slush. I was wearing my heavy winter boots to deflect most of the muck. The snowbanks were full of mud and axel grease, which is never a good look. It might not be a good look, but it was a good match to my mood. I cut through the park, and as I was rounding the bandstand my phone rang. “Please tell me they’ve made an arrest in the Olsen murder and it’s starting to snow.”
“Sorry, Merry,” Russ Durham said. “No can do. I have an update from the police on that matter we talked about yesterday. Are you still at home?”
“No, I’m on my way to work. What did you learn?”
“The police don’t know anything about the whereabouts of your real estate agent, whose name, by the way, is John Benedict. You were right, and he was easy to find. The real estate section is the biggest in the Chronicle. He wasn’t on their radar so they didn’t ask him for an alibi. I put a bug in Simmonds’s ear about that.”
“Good. What about Mayor Baumgartner?”
“Cast-iron alibi.”
“No such thing,” I said. “People can be persuaded to lie to the police if they think there’s something in it for them. Let me guess, his alibi is a town councillor. Maybe someone with a nice piece of undeveloped country property perfect for a big-box store.”
Russ chuckled. “They don’t get any more cast-iron than this
. He was in the Rudolph jail at the time in question.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Perfectly. Looks like His Honor can’t hold his liquor. He was arrested in a brawl in the Red Bull at eight o’clock the night Gord Olsen died.”
“Good heavens.”
“He was held overnight and released the next morning. Not the first time, either, I was given to understand. Seems that Mayor Baumgartner prefers to do his drinking outside the Muddle Harbor town limits. And, as he has a shockingly low tolerance for alcohol, he’s usually locked up before the rest of us have finished dinner.”
“He was at the Red Bull?” Unlike every other business in or near the town limits of Rudolph, the Red Bull Tavern made no attempt to maintain the year-round Christmas spirit. Although I had been told that in December some of the strippers wore red hats and . . . other seasonal accessories.
Russ chuckled again. “Yup.”
“Thanks, Russ. That doesn’t help us any, but at least it eliminates one suspect.”
“Merry”—Russ’s voice turned serious—“don’t get involved. Let the police handle it. I don’t know what warning you and Alan were talking about yesterday, but I can guess. This isn’t a game, and whoever murdered Gord Olsen isn’t playing around.”
“I know that,” I said. And I did. What could I achieve that the cops with their manpower, forensic labs, phone records, bank account warrants, and all their other resources couldn’t?
I knew these people. I also knew that wasn’t likely to be enough.
“Thanks, Russ,” I said.
“You take care, Merry. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I said. We hung up.
For the rest of the way to work I wasn’t thinking about the people of Rudolph or the children’s Christmas weekend, or even about who killed Gord Olsen. I was thinking of Russ Durham, of the way his deep Southern accent had caressed my name, of the concern in his voice. It was nice, I thought as I walked, nice to know he cared. Nice to have a friend.