Rest You Merry

by Charlotte MacLeod

  The place was quieter than he’d ever seen it before. Everybody was broke from paying for Christmas presents, the waitress explained, or home eating leftovers or over at the Illumination. She piloted them to a corner booth Shandy had often coveted but never before got to sit in. They had salad and baked potatoes and medium-rare prime ribs and a California Beaujolais that made Helen feel more kindly toward the San Andreas Fault. When he ran out of stories about life among the combines, the professor discovered that he didn’t mind telling Helen about Ben Cadwall.

  “Don’t you think it’s logical to assume,” he concluded, “that Ben and Jemima were killed by the same person, for the same reason?”

  “I think it’s lots more logical than to believe there could be two unrelated murders within such a closed community in the space of three days,” she replied. “Then there are so many possible connections. That marble you found in the Cadwalls’ bedroom, for one thing. You don’t know whose coat it fell out of.”

  “Good Lord, no, I don’t. I was thinking of Ben or Hannah, but it could have been anybody. Ben might have seen the thing drop when he was taking someone’s coat and not bothered about it because others were crowding in at the same time. Then later downstairs, when I told my little tale about slipping on the marbles—”

  “Did you actually tell that?”

  “I did. They wanted all the details, you know, about how I found Jemima’s body. Somebody asked why I looked behind the sofa, so I explained about finding the marbles scattered over the floor and realizing that somebody must have been in the house.”

  “There you are! The marble falls. Maybe Dr. Cadwall actually sees what it is. Anyway, he says, ‘Oh, you’ve dropped something,’ and the other person says, ‘No, I haven’t,’ because he doesn’t know he has the marble on him.”

  “Or her.”

  “Of course. Then after you’ve told your story, he—I do wish somebody would think up a new collective pronoun—realizes it must have been the marble that fell, and sneaks back to hunt for it.”

  “But it’s gone, because I took it. Tim and I rushed out before anybody else because he suddenly remembered we were supposed to meet your plane.”

  “So the murderer thinks Dr. Cadwall has the marble and will remember his having said he didn’t drop anything when he obviously had. But then why hasn’t he killed Mrs. Cadwall, too? Wouldn’t he be afraid Dr. Cadwall had told his wife?”

  “Maybe he tried. The taxine might have been meant for both of them and somehow she missed getting any. Or he might have known Ben’s penchant for keeping secrets and gambled on her not knowing.”

  “Or she might have been the one who dropped the marble,” Helen finished.

  “She was my first suspect,” Shandy admitted. “I figured she’d have had the best chance of killing Jemima because she wasn’t at the party and might logically have gone along with Jemima when she broke into my house. I had some notion that Hannah might have been embezzling the Illumination money and was afraid Jemima would expose her. Jemima would do that, you know, even to her best friend. She was great on principle.”

  “She must really have been a rather awful woman. No wonder Jemmy went to California and her brother to the South Pole. I’m surprised it wasn’t Dr. Ames who killed her.”

  “He might have, I daresay, except that Tim’s deaf as a haddock and pretty much wrapped up in his work. In any event, I can assure you he didn’t. And I’m fairly well convinced Hannah didn’t kill Ben, either. His death came as a total surprise to her, I’ll swear. I had the happy task of breaking the news in both instances, you know. However, as you say, I don’t know anything about women.”

  “Poor Peter.”

  Helen touched his hand lightly. “Do you think we ought to start back? You’ve had a rough day.”

  “At least it began and ended pleasantly.”

  “Cross your fingers. It’s not over yet.” Helen shrugged Jemima’s old black cape around her shoulders and slid out of the booth. “That was a lovely dinner.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. We must come again soon.”

  “I’d like to.”

  After that, they didn’t say much. Helen must have been feeling the effects of adjusting to a different climate and her first day on a new job. Shandy had to concentrate on his driving. The snow that had been threatening all day was now beginning to fall, spreading a slippery film over the road. They were almost back to Balaclava Junction before he broke silence.

  “I think we’d better go around by the back road. The marshmallow roast must be breaking up about now, and Main Street will be total disaster. At least this will give you a panoramic view of the Skunk Works.”

  “I’m all anticipation. All but my left foot, at any rate. That’s gone to sleep.”

  Helen slid her foot out of her shoe and rubbed at her toes, gazing out through the now thickening snow.

  “How many marshmallows did they roast, for goodness’ sake? I can see the bonfire from here.”

  “You couldn’t possibly,” said Shandy. “The playing field’s in a deep hollow on the far side of the college buildings. What you’re seeing—my God!”

  He scrambled for the snowbanks as fire engines whooped down the icy road.

  “Well, Helen, I guess I own Dysart an apology. That’s the power plant.”

  Chapter 20

  “WE’LL JUST HAVE TO keep going.”

  Shandy found that he was sweating. Holding a car to this narrow, snaking road was tricky enough in broad daylight under decent conditions. On a night like this, with the snow falling thicker every moment and fire engines crowding past in astonishing numbers, he’d be lucky not to wrap them around a tree, or slide into one of the deep gullies he couldn’t see but knew were far too close.

  “Where are all these fire engines coming from?”

  Helen sounded nervous, as well she might.

  “They must have sent out a general alarm to the neighboring towns. Balaclava Junction only has one old ladder truck and a couple of pumpers for grass fires.”

  “That wouldn’t happen unless it’s really bad, would it?”

  “I don’t know, Helen. We’ve never had a fire before at the college. And why the bloody, flaming hell did it have to be tonight?” he snarled as another siren almost sent them into a bad skid.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised if Professor Dysart set it himself, just to prove his point.”

  Shandy grunted, then, to his own relief, began to chuckle.

  “Neither should I. He’s probably lashed himself to a turbine and vowed to go down with the ship.”

  “Not unless there’s a television news crew around,” said Helen. “Why does it make me feel better to be catty, do you suppose?”

  “The natural perversity of humankind. If we succeed in getting out of this mess alive, I shall be glad you were with me.

  “Peter, that’s sweet. I’d give your hand a friendly squeeze, only I don’t want to distract you from your driving.”

  “A wise but regrettable decision. I hope I can get you to reconsider at a more auspicious time.”

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Flirtation implies a lack of serious purpose. Good Lord, look at that!”

  They had rounded a hairpin turn that brought them out on a rise almost directly above the power plant. Even with snow blurring their view, the spectacle was awesome. From one of the methane storage tanks, a tongue of flame was shooting almost to the level of the ledge they were on. Nearby, a shed was being reduced to crimson embers by crisscrossing streams from fire hoses. Red searchlights cast an eerie glow over the snow, revealing swarms of black-clad figures rushing among the imperiled buildings.

  The temptation to stay and watch was almost irresistible, but this was too dangerous a place. Shandy kept going until an auxiliary policeman barred his way.

  “You can’t go down there, mister!”

  “It’s Professor Shandy,” he shouted back through the rolled-down window. “I’m trying to get home. I live o
n the Crescent.”

  “You’ll have to ditch the car and walk.”

  “But this lady has no boots on.”

  “Oh, Jeez. Wait a second.”

  The snow-caked vigilante fumbled in a pocket of his parka and hauled out two enormous slabs of gray fuzz. “Always carry spare socks. Never know when you’re going to need ’em. If you pull ’em over your shoes, they’ll at least keep the snow out.”

  “What a marvelous idea! You’re a lifesaver.”

  Shandy pulled the car off the road as best he could. Helen pulled on the policeman’s socks. They reached to her knees and made her feet look as though they’d got tangled in a bath mat, but the rough knitting would give traction on the slippery road.

  “What’s happening down there?” Shandy asked the man while Helen was still struggling to coax the clinging wool over her already soggy shoes.

  “Darned if I know, Professor. I heard the general alarm and came running. Ottermole sent me up here to direct the engines and stop anybody else from going down. Cripes, there’s fire apparatus stretched from hell to breakfast. We thought for a while the whole place would go, but they seem to be making headway now.”

  “When did it start?”

  “Maybe half an hour ago. One of the gas tanks blew first. Then that barn caught fire.”

  “What caused it? Does anybody know?”

  “No, but I can make a mighty shrewd guess. See for yourself. There’s the gas tank bang in front of us, and there’s the barn way the hell and gone over behind the main turbine building. How’s a flame supposed to jump that far and not hit anything in between? If you ask me, Fred Ottermole better start looking for a guy with a good pitching arm and a couple of beer bottles full of gasoline.”

  The man’s attention was diverted by a carload of misguided sight-seers. Shandy took Helen by the arm and started the downward trek.

  At eye level, the fire was less impressive than it had appeared from above. The two separate blazes were well under control and everything around them encased in protective layers of ice from the fire hoses. Nevertheless, the fire fighters were taking no chances. They had the area so widely cordoned off that spectators were strung out into a thin, straggling line. Most of these seemed to think that the near-disaster, like the marshmallow roast, had been laid on for their entertainment. The only glum faces in the crowd belonged to college folk. Shandy and Miss Marsh had hardly begun to skirt the fire lines when they were hailed by a bundle of fake mink that proved to be Mirelle Feldster.

  “Peter! Peter, where have you been? I went looking for you as soon as the sirens started.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just did.” She giggled self-consciously. “You know me, just being neighborly. Actually, it wasn’t quite that soon. Jim and I were over at the Dysarts’ playing Scrabble. Adele’s got this awful cold, so Bob called and asked us to come over and cheer her up. We couldn’t very well say no, though personally I’d rather have—oh, I didn’t notice you’ve got somebody with you.” Her voice, like the buildings around them, was abruptly encased in ice.

  “This is Helen Marsh,” said Shandy. “Mirelle Feldster is one of your new neighbors, Helen.”

  “Oh, then you must be the woman who’s come to stay at the Ameses’. You travel fast, don’t you, Miss Marsh?” Mirelle turned her back on Helen and resumed her narrative.

  “As I started to say, we were playing Scrabble and having drinks—you know Bob—when the chapel bell started banging away like mad. At first we thought it was some of the students putting on a show. Then we heard fire sirens and thought the marshmallow roast must have got out of hand, but we kept hearing more and all of a sudden Bob jumped up and yelled, ‘Christ! It’s the power plant.’ So then he grabbed his coat and ran. Jim ran straight after him, leaving me in the lurch as usual, but I wasn’t about to get stuck alone with Adele and her germs. I said I’d better come along and see if I was needed because I’m in the Civil Defense auxiliary—at least I used to be when we had one—so anyway, here I am.”

  “Where’s Dysart?”

  “Around somewhere. I saw him up by the main turbine building a while back, waving his arms and yelling. I think he was trying to make the fire chief let him through the lines, but he didn’t make it. I don’t see why they should myself. Bob doesn’t even have tenure. Honestly, the fuss he’s been making, you’d think he owned the plant. Between you and me, he’s about half sloshed.”

  It occurred to Shandy that Mirelle was, too. He tried to break away, but she had no intention of letting him go.

  “Were you surprised when they arrested Hannah Cadwall?”

  “Good Lord! When did this happen?”

  “Around six o’clock. Of course they’d had her under house arrest all afternoon, ever since Grimble found Ben’s body. Wasn’t that a ghastly thing? Can you imagine just walking into somebody’s office and seeing a dead man staring at you?”

  “Er—yes,” said Shandy.

  Mirelle paid no attention. “So they started searching the house and found the poison, as I knew they would. As soon as I heard Ben was murdered I said to Jim, ‘You mark my words, she’s the one.’ Did it for the money, of course. Ben would never let her spend a cent and they say he was absolutely rolling. Much good it’s going to do her where she’s going. I wonder who the man is.”

  “What man?”

  “Oh, Peter, use your common sense. A woman wouldn’t kill one husband unless she thought she had another one lined up. Would she?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Mirelle. Come on, Helen, we’ve got to get you home. I don’t suppose those socks are doing much good.”

  “N-not much.”

  Her teeth were chattering. Shandy looked around, saw a hand sled which one of the elves had injudiciously abandoned, and snatched up the rope. “Get on.”

  “Peter, should you—”

  “Go ahead. Better to look silly than freeze to death.” Helen was in no shape to argue. She sat down on the sled and drew its plastic protective sheet around her shaking body. Shandy set off at a trot, heedless of amused glances. When they got to the steep incline that led down into the Crescent, he hopped on behind and shoved off, forgetting that these sleds were not made to be steered by the rider. In order to stop, he had to spill them in a snowdrift.

  “Sorry about that,” he panted, brushing Helen off and helping her to her feet. “If we’d kept going, we’d have been out in the middle of Main Street by now.”

  “I don’t mind. It was fun, once I began to thaw. Are you coming in?”

  “Only to see you safe inside. I expect you’ll want a hot bath as soon as possible.”

  “If there is one. The fire may have done something to the power plant.”

  “Can’t have. The lights are still on. Including mine, unfortunately.”

  “Peter, I do want to thank you for this evening.”

  “Even though it didn’t turn out as I’d hoped.”

  “What were you hoping for?”

  He hadn’t kissed a woman for years, but he managed fairly well, all things considered. “Now go get your feet dry.”

  “If you say so.”

  Helen turned the key in the Ameses’ lock, let them in, and started to hang up the wet cape. Suddenly she burst out laughing.

  “Oh, Peter, what a spectacle I must have cut on that sled, with my feet in bags and that silly cape flapping out behind me.”

  “The sled got you here, didn’t it?” Shandy’s jaw dropped. “Good Lord, of course it did. How could I be so dense?” He planted one more fast kiss on Helen’s startled face, and hurtled back out into the storm.

  Chapter 21

  THE JACKMANS HAD NOT gone to the fire. Through the unshaded window, Shandy could see the young parents, their offspring presumably tucked away, sprawled on that overstuffed passion pit he’d so narrowly escaped having to share with Sheila. Fatigue was etched on their faces. Each clutched a large tumblerful of grown-up vitamins. It was cruel to get them up, but Shandy kept his f
inger on the doorbell until, after a short but vicious quarrel, the husband came to let him in.

  “Peter Shandy! What brings you here?”

  “An ill wind. Why aren’t you at the fire with everybody else?”

  “Listen, Peter, last night I slept, if you want to call it that, in a lean-to on Old Bareface with the wind howling up my pant legs and damn near freezing my—”

  “It better hadn’t,” Sheila called from the sofa. “Come and have a drink, Peter.”

  “No, thanks. I just want to ask you one question. And believe me, it’s important. Did either of you, or any of your children, see one of those elves dragging a passenger on a sled around my house the night I went away?”

  Both Jackmans stared at him, as well they might. “For gosh sake,” said Roger, “those kids are around all the time. How should we notice?”

  “That’s right,” said Sheila. “They’re supposed to keep the sleds up off the Crescent, but they come just the same.”

  “I know that. I don’t mean on the walkway, I mean actually in my yard. Very late, when they ought to have quit.”

  “They never quit. Nor rain nor snow nor dark of night. Are you sure you won’t join us in a little general anesthetic?” said Roger. “I’ll get it. Sheila brought Dickie and Wendy up to the shelter for a cookeroo this morning. She’s even more whacked out than I am, or so she claims.”

  “I know all about the cookeroo and I don’t give a damn,” snapped the professor. “For God’s sake rack your brains. Did you or did you not see anybody with a sled around my house late on the night of the twenty-second?”

  “Honestly, Peter, I think you’ve lost your tiddleywinks,” Sheila protested. “With all the pandemonium that’s been going on around here over the holidays, how can you expect us to remember one stupid little—”

  “Wait a second,” her husband interrupted. “Shut up and let me think. Last night at the lean-to, while we were having our man-to-man talk, JoJo was giving me some kind of song and dance about the elves stealing Santa Claus and taking him for a ride.”