We Wish You a Murderous Christmas

by Vicki Delany

  Betty threw the paper in his face and took a step forward. I felt as much as saw Mark tense as his grip tightened on the knife. Vicky continued hammering on the door. The sirens were getting closer. My father stood silently beside me.

  “Clark can’t make change,” I shouted. “He was given a hundred-dollar bill to pay for a five-dollar item and he has no change left. He . . . he told me he was going to close the Nook for the day and take the hundred around to the Red Bull. Treat some of his buddies.”

  “What!” Betty screeched. She turned and took a step toward me, her eyes round and wild. “I knew he couldn’t be left alone for more than ten minutes.” She shook her hand. The knife wavered. Without stopping to think, I took a single step forward, grabbed her wrist, and held on as tightly as I could. I looked into her eyes and tried very hard to keep my voice calm and steady. “That knife looks sharp, Betty. We wouldn’t want any accidents.”

  The knife clattered to the floor. Mark rushed in and scooped it up as Betty began to cry.

  With an almighty crash the front door fell in and at the same time uniformed men and women poured through the shattered French doors.

  “Whoa! Wasn’t me,” Mark said in the face of an officer’s drawn gun. He dropped both knives as if they were on fire.

  “He’s one of the good guys,” I said to Detective Simmonds. She nodded to the cop and he put his weapon away. Vicky threw herself into Mark’s arms and my father gathered me into his.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  “I’m going to have one heck of a headache later,” Dad said. “I don’t even know what happened. I heard a noise, came out of the bedroom, and wham. When I came to, I was on the floor and you were in the house.”

  “What’s happening? This is my home. Where’s my husband? Let me through!” Grace burst into the room. With an anguished cry she dropped to her knees in front of Jack’s chair.

  “Close one,” Jack said.

  An officer hustled a handcuffed and weeping Betty Thatcher out the door.

  “You people go up to the hotel,” Simmonds said to us. “Wait for me there. Mr. Olsen, do you need to go to the hospital?”

  “Nope.”

  Candy Campbell attempted to gather me, Dad, Mark, Vicky, and Grace and herd us to the hotel. She would have had as much success herding cats.

  I glanced around the room. Vicky and Mark clung to each other murmuring sweet nothings, and Grace wept while Jack patted her back and said, “There, there. All’s well that ends well.”

  We should, I thought, leave the happy couples alone. Alone as much as they could be in a room full of cops securing a crime scene. I took my dad’s arm and said, “Let’s go.”

  Dad and I passed more officers coming in. Outside, people were lined up at the hotel windows and a crowd had gathered on the lane, watching an officer stringing yellow tape around the cottage property.

  Dad and I stepped out of the house. “Hey!” someone called. “It’s Santa.”

  Dad waved. For a moment I wondered why everything in the distance seemed blurry. I glanced at Dad. He was grinning from ear to ear, holding his hands out.

  He was catching snowflakes. Light, fat, fluffy flakes of snow were falling steadily from a cloud-filled sky.

  Chapter 17

  “Ho, ho, ho,” said the deep voice from the shop doorway.

  “Look who’s here,” a woman said to the restless six-year-old tugging on her coat. “It’s Santa!”

  The kid, who’d moments before been whining and stomping his feet with such vigor I feared for the more delicate of my ornaments, stood stock-still, wide-eyed and openmouthed.

  “Have you been a good boy?” Santa asked him.

  The child nodded, struck dumb.

  “Santa’s going to the park,” the head toymaker said. “For games.”

  “We’ll be right there, Santa,” the mother said.

  My dad nodded to the music box resting in her hand. “Your great-grandmother will get a lot of pleasure out of that.” With a wink and another wave to the child, he left.

  The woman’s eyes were as wide and delighted as her son’s. “How did he know my great-grandmother’s still alive? This will be her one hundred and seventh Christmas, and she looks forward to it as much as she did when she was a child.”

  “He’s Santa,” the toymaker said.

  “Are you Santa’s wife?” the child asked me.

  “Yup,” I said. Normally I might be offended if someone suggested I was old enough to be married to my own father. But I was in my Mrs. Claus getup and today everyone would believe what they wanted to believe. The air over Rudolph was chock-full of that special Christmas magic.

  “Shall I wrap that for you?” an elf said. The woman nodded, and Jackie took the music box behind the counter. Jackie and Crystal were dressed in the elf costumes they’d made for the Santa Claus parade. I’d decided not to notice that Jackie had made some adjustments to her costume since the parade; her elf was now more the type to be found in the adult section of the DVD store. The customer paid for the music box and, after helping themselves to another gingerbread cookie from the table by the door, she and her child left.

  “Busy?” Santa’s head toymaker, aka Alan Anderson, asked. About the only recognizable part of Alan were the clear blue eyes and the calm voice. He’d glued a full gray mustache to his upper lip and bushy sideburns to his cheeks, his nose was filled out with putty, and he peered at me through rimless spectacles. He wore a woolen jacket, knee-length breeches, and shoes with bright brass buckles.

  “Run off our feet,” I said. “And it’s only noon.”

  “You should have a break for a while. Santa’s about to have his first session of the day.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “Jackie, have you heard from Kyle? How’s it going?”

  “He’s totally complaining about being demoted to second subassistant apprentice toymaker or something,” she said. “But seeing as to how your dad made the town honor their agreement with him so he’s still getting paid, he’s okay with it.”

  I would hope so. I’d made a discreet phone call last night to Kyle to inform him that I’d see him run out of town if he ever again tried a stunt like betraying Rudolph to the Muddle Harbor Chronicle. He’d blustered and stammered something incomprehensible about “free speech” but backed off once he realized I wasn’t asking him to give up the money he’d earned by selling the photograph. I hadn’t told Dad about it, or anyone else.

  “The second subassistant apprentice toymaker is making more than the master toymaker,” Alan said, pretending to grumble. “Who’s charging his usual rate of nothing.”

  “Only fair,” I said. “They did call Kyle yesterday afternoon to tell him the job was off.”

  “He paid for his Santa costume out of his own pocket,” Jackie said. “When he went to take it back the Nook was closed. Who knows if he’ll ever get a refund? Whoever would have thought it? Betty Thatcher a killer. I wonder what’ll happen to the Nook now.”

  “Got a minute?” Alan said to me.

  “Sure.” We stepped out onto the sidewalk to talk with some degree of privacy. It had snowed all day yesterday and into the night, and this morning a brilliant yellow sun shone in a pure blue sky, and the temperature was a perfect thirty degrees. The town had decided not to chance letting people skate on the bay, and it was too late to make a rink, but at Dad’s suggestion, the ice hockey games had been turned into field hockey in the snow. Enough fresh snow had fallen for the snow sculpture competitions and the toboggan races on the hill. Over the sound of sleigh bells and laughter, I could hear faint strains of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” as my mom’s junior class began their concert.

  It was Christmas in Rudolph and all was right with the world.

  All, that is, except for the locked door and unlit storefront next to mine.

  “Did you sleep
okay?” Alan asked.

  “No trouble,” I said. “Honestly, Alan, I felt better knowing it was over and we were all safe again.” I shook my head. “Poor Betty. She must have been driven crazy all these years, waiting for Jack to acknowledge his son.”

  “Don’t feel too sorry for Betty,” he said. “Gord didn’t deserve to die to make a place for Clark.”

  “I know that. I wonder what Clark’s going to do now. He can’t manage the Nook on his own.”

  “I’d better be going,” Alan said. “Someone has to write down all those kids’ wishes.”

  I smiled at him. He made no move to leave. Instead he lifted his hand and touched my cheek. He ran his finger lightly down the side of my face. “I’d kiss you, Merry Wilkinson, if you weren’t in that costume.”

  “Why not?” I teased. “This is a glimpse of what I’m going to look like when I’m old.”

  “And I’ll be old along with you. We don’t want rumors running around saying Mrs. Claus is having an affair with the head toymaker.”

  I smiled at him. I’d been smiling so much for the last twenty-four hours my face hurt.

  Yesterday, Simmonds had kept my group of witnesses confined to the inn’s meeting rooms until she had a chance to interview us. Dad couldn’t tell her much, as he hadn’t seen who’d broken into the Olsens’ house and hit him, but Simmonds made me go over and over everything that had happened since I’d arrived at Grace and Jack’s home. When Dad and I were finally allowed to leave the inn, Alan Anderson had been sitting by the fireplace in the lobby, waiting for us. He leapt to his feet and stuffed a paperback book into one of his big coat pockets.

  I’d had a text from Russ saying he had to head back to town to write his story. Did I have a comment for the press? I passed the phone to Dad, who called Russ and chatted about the community spirit of Rudolph and a safe, welcoming atmosphere, blah, blah, blah.

  “Thanks for waiting,” I said to Alan.

  He studied my face for a long time. I felt like a fool, standing there, smiling up at him while he smiled back at me. I didn’t mind feeling like a fool at all.

  Dad gave me back my phone. “I need a ride,” I said. “I came with Vicky, but she had to get back to work.”

  “I’ll take you,” Alan said.

  Dad cut him off. “No need. Your place is in the wrong direction. Russ tells me the weekend is back on and Sue-Anne is practicing being contrite even as we speak. That means you have work to do, Alan. I assume you’ll be my toymaker again.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Good. Good. Come along, Merry, don’t dawdle. They didn’t get that skating rink made, did they? I’ll check the temperature and see if it’s going to be cold enough overnight to freeze the bay solid. Probably not, but it doesn’t hurt to find out.”

  Dad headed for the door, still talking.

  “Alan,” I said.

  “Go with your dad, Merry. I’ll see you tomorrow. I have . . . we have . . . things to talk about.”

  “We sure do,” I said.

  He gathered me into his arms and kissed me. I kissed him back, and we held each other for a few long, lovely, precious seconds.

  “Merry!” Dad called over his shoulder. “Phone your mother. Tell her to contact her students. The game’s afoot!” He could always find a suitable Sherlock Holmes quote for every occasion.

  “Can’t keep Santa waiting,” Alan said, giving me his soft, gentle smile.

  I had Dad swing past my house so I could let Mattie out for a quick pee and find a pair of shoes to replace the brown Birkenstocks that were the only thing in my size in the hotel’s lost and found (another pair of shoes ruined!), before dropping me at the store. I was totally exhausted, mentally as well as physically, and facing one of the busiest weekends of the year, but it was the Friday before Christmas, and I couldn’t ask Jackie and Crystal to handle the store alone. By the time we got back to town, snow was falling steadily and the sidewalks of Rudolph were crowded with eager customers. That evening had been the busiest since I’d taken ownership of Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. Everyone in town, residents and tourists, wanted the inside scoop on what had happened at the inn, and most of them (the visitors, anyway) were polite enough to pretend they’d come to shop. Other than a whispered word to Jackie, I spent the rest of the day repeating, “The Rudolph police department will be releasing a statement shortly.” Fortunately, I’d been looking out the window to gauge the amount of snow we were getting when I saw Russell Durham heading our way. I escaped to my office and told Jackie to tell him I wasn’t in.

  “Hiding in the back” was the phrase she actually used, and Russ didn’t push it.

  Now Alan and I stopped grinning foolishly at each other as we heard the sound of bells approaching. Dancer and Prancer were coming our way, heads held high, tails flicking, huge hooves shaking the ground. They pulled a sleigh full of excited children and happy parents, heading for the park.

  “Hey,” Alan said, his arm resting lightly on my shoulder. “Look who’s in front.”

  I jumped up and down and waved. Jack Olsen sat on the bench next to the driver. He was bundled up in a heavy coat, a plaid blanket arranged over his knees, and a scarlet and green scarf wrapped many times around his neck. His sunken cheeks glowed red and his eyes shone. He saw Alan and me watching and lifted his hand. Grace sat behind him, and she also waved at us. Her smile was radiant.

  “It is so nice to see Jack enjoying himself,” I said. “We were all afraid he was about to give up on life after the death of Gord, but the confrontation with Betty put the spark back in him.”

  “Once relit,” Alan said, “hard to extinguish.”

  “I’m not going to judge,” I said. “And I don’t know the whole story, but it seems to me Jack has to bear some of the blame for what happened. He never acknowledged paternity and was sneeringly dismissive of Clark when he came to work at the inn. Poor Betty, still hoping that after almost thirty years Jack would do the decent thing by her and her son.”

  “I’m just glad it’s over and your dad’s good name is cleared.”

  “The first customers through my door this morning were Arlene and Kathy,” I said.

  “Who the heck are Arlene and Kathy?”

  “The Fine Budget wives. They checked out of the inn this morning and left their husbands having breakfast and making calls while they came into town for one last shop. They have flights home later today. Kathy told me she hopes to get back here for a vacation next year. But, she said, the deal to turn the Yuletide into a Fine Budget franchise is off.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  News of police activity at the Yuletide Inn had, of course, been all over town in minutes. The moment it was revealed that Noel Wilkinson, far from being a suspect, had himself been attacked by the crazed killer of Gord Olsen, Sue-Anne called to ask Dad to resume his role of Santa. Which, being the sort never to hold a grudge, he happily agreed to do. When they realized temperatures were dropping and snow was going to fall all through the night, the town swung into action to get the children’s weekend back on track.

  “Gotta run,” Alan said.

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?” I said. “It won’t be much, but I have some soup in the freezer.” This weekend was all about children and families; the shops wouldn’t be too busy after the supper hour, so I could take the evening off.

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  “If you don’t have plans for Christmas dinner,” I said without thinking, “I’d love to have you join us. My brother, Chris, will be home, and Mom and Dad and some of their friends are coming to my place.” Christmas was now three days away. Not only did I not have enough plates for twelve guests—now thirteen—I had forgotten to order a turkey or a roast; I had not thought about chairs or dishes in which to serve the sides. I would be working until three on Christmas Eve, the same time as all t
he other shops closed.

  “I think I’m already invited,” Alan said. “When your mom heard that my parents are visiting my aunt in Phoenix this year, so my brothers aren’t coming home, she said I would be joining them. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t tell me we were going to your place.”

  “I’m thinking pizza,” I said, “or Chinese. On paper plates on laps. While Mattie tries to climb into said laps.”

  “Sounds absolutely perfect.”

  “My dad won’t think so.”

  Alan grinned. He touched my face one more time, then turned and walked away. I watched him hurrying down Jingle Bell Lane, heading for the park, where Santa held court in the bandstand. A line of giggling children fell in behind the head toymaker.

  Diane Simmonds came into my shop in the early afternoon. She wore jeans and a puffy blue coat, and a young girl was with her. The resemblance between the two was remarkable: the emerald eyes, the untamed mop of red curls. I said, “Hi, Charlotte.”

  She blinked. “How’d you know my name?”

  I tapped my nose. “I’m Mrs. Claus. My husband tells me things.”

  She edged closer to me, and I leaned in. “I know there’s no Santa,” she said in a whisper. “My mom told me because we’re living in Christmas Town we have to pretend there is.”

  “Wait until you meet Santa,” I said. “You might change your mind.”

  “Do you have a moment?” Simmonds asked me.

  “A quick one,” I said. Jackie and Crystal were busy with customers, but no one seemed to need my attention just then.

  “Honey, you go and pick out your gift for Grandma. And then you can choose a few pretty things to decorate the house.”

  Charlotte headed straight for the dolls. I took her mother into my office. Simmonds did not take a seat. “This is a day I intend to devote strictly to my daughter, but I figured you deserved to know some of what we found out.”

  I nodded.

  “Betty Thatcher has made a full confession. As she told you, she was enraged when Gord Olsen began making plans for the future of the inn, cutting her son, Clark, completely out. Jack Olsen had made vague promises to her over the years that he’d leave Clark one half of his business. That turned out to be a lie. Olsen told me his will leaves money to Clark in trust, knowing he has no business sense whatsoever and would likely just squander any inheritance he does get.”