A Murder in Christmas Village (Christmas Village Mysteries Book 0)

by Alex Colwell

  “Scoops Magee?”

  “-every killer is the boy next door until they’re caught. Am I right, Doc?”

  “You are correct,” said Doc.

  Bentley nodded an ‘I told you so’ at Angela.

  “And so is Angela.” Everybody turned to look at Doc. “The deputy’s instincts are good, and in my forty years as the doctor in this village – 49 if you count the years I apprenticed under ol’ Doc Baxter before he retired – I’ve seen a number of nasty murders, and at least half the time I knew the guy who did it and didn’t have even a foggy notion that he had such a thing in him. But this is not one of those cases. Billy Menges was long gone by the time Mr. Wilkinson was murdered.”

  “And how do you know that?” asked Bentley.

  “The saw dust. There was no evidence of Menges entering the room, because he hadn’t started the saw, so there was no dust on the floor. You can see the spot where he stood sawing because the floor is bald bare where the dust landed around his shoes. And you can follow his trail from the table saw to the door and out into the hall.”

  “Who’s to say he didn’t kill Wilkinson on his way out of the room?” objected Bentley.

  “Once again, the saw dust. Mr. Wilkinson apparently paced the floor quite a bit before coming to a stop where he did. Some of his tracks fell on top of the ones made earlier by Menges as he was leaving. So there’s not a sliver of doubt in this crusty ol’ noggin of mine that Wilkinson entered that room very much alive after Billy had left for home.”

  Angela quickly noted these points in her tablet. “As I said, we can dismiss Billy Menges as a suspect. So where does that leave us?”

  Maribel cleared her throat softly, a white cloth waved before entering the line of fire. “I understand from Mr. Moore that the sheriff has a suspect in the office? Am I to assume there is some evidence against him?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. It’s a pretty strong case,” offered Angela.

  “Oh? And what’s the case?”

  Angela looked to Deputy Bentley as if to suggest that he should answer.

  “Tex Bundy – that’s the man’s name – worked for Wilkinson at the scrap yard he owned and every summer he toured with the western show as both a stage hand and a performer. I took Mr. Dandridge’s statement and he informed me that Bundy had a rap sheet for breaking and entering and burglary. He was on hard times after getting out of prison when Wilkinson took him on. Turns out Bundy was a professional lock-pick.”

  “Is that a significant point?” asked Maribel.

  “The door to the prop room was locked. A standard deadbolt. Mr. Moore had to use his key to open it and the only other key was in Wilkinson’s pocket.”

  “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Wilkinson himself locked the door and the killer was already inside?” asked Angela.

  Bentley had already thought through this, but for Angela’s benefit he pretended to give her question serious consideration before answering. “That would be possible if there was another exit from the room. But there’s no other door, no windows, no traps in the floor, nothing. The only way in or out is through the door into the hall. Whoever killed Wilkinson locked that door behind him.”

  “I mean no disrespect to our host,” whispered Maribel, “but I assume you inquired into Mr. Moore’s whereabouts at the crucial time?”

  “Indeed we did. We know that Wilkinson was last seen by a stage hand alone in the prop room, with the door open, at six-fifteen in the PM. The door was locked when Mr. Moore was summoned to open it at six-fifty-nine, and that’s when the murder was discovered. Mr. Moore stated that for all of that time he was in the stage area seeing to lighting and sound. We were able to corroborate this with employees of the theater as well as members of Wilkinson’s traveling group. There doesn’t seem to be any way Mr. Moore could have done this.”

  “Was Mr. Bundy able to provide an alibi?” asked Maribel.

  “Not much of one,” said Deputy Bentley. “He claims he was in his dressing room the entire time. Problem is, he had the door closed. Nobody reports seeing him anywhere else, but then nobody can say for sure he was where he says he was.”

  Maribel stepped away from the group, pacing a few feet one way and then back again. “You mentioned that Mr. Bundy was a performer in the show. What were his skills?”

  Angela scribbled as they talked and Doc Wilcox leaned against the wall and yawned as Maribel and the young deputy played teacher and student. Who should be assigned which role might have been a matter of debate at that moment, but not for terribly much longer.

  “He was a knife thrower. Mr. Wilkinson was the sharp shot, his wife - the whip and lasso lady, and Mr. Dandridge would join Wilkinson on stage for the dueling pistol routine. You’ve probably heard about it?”

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  The deputy smiled big and Angela noticed how white his teeth shown, even in the brown shadows of the theater’s old hallway. “I caught their show a few years back when I was home in Glyn Allen. Maybe you have to be a gun man to appreciate it, but it was the most impressive six-shooter display I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if it’s true, but they say that Wilkinson was the best shot around. I wouldn’t disagree with that.”

  Maribel stopped pacing for a moment. “I can see why the sheriff is so taken with the idea that this Bundy was the culprit. After all, Wilkinson died from a cut throat and Bundy’s skilled with knives. The door was locked from the outside, but without a key, and Mr. Bundy’s a lock-pick. But why would a man with a criminal record and so few options kill his employer?”

  “According to Mr. Dandridge, Wilkinson wasn’t going to be Bundy’s employer much longer. Wilkinson was in business for himself, but in a small way. He owns a scrap yard. He found out Bundy was pulling good parts from cars and selling them on the side for himself. He decided to fire Bundy after the summer tour. Tonight was the last night, so the working theory is that Bundy found out he was being fire and snapped.”

  Maribel resumed her pacing. “So he had the means in that he was good with knives, he had the opportunity, and he had a motive.”

  Bentley snapped his fingers in the air as though Maribel had just split the atom. “That’s right, and if that Billy fellow you know isn’t good for it, then I suppose it’s got to be Bundy. There’s no one else with the means, the motive, or the opportunity. Looks like he’s going to swing for it.”

  “This isn’t Glyn Allen. We don’t hang people here,” said Angela.

  “It’s just a term, Scoops. I don’t think they hang people any more anywhere.”

  “Scoops!”

  “You’re a reporter, you get scoops. You’re Scoops.” The electricity was palpable, although Maribel was too distracted at that moment to notice.

  “What was it you said on the phone, Angie? You said the case against him was too good. Right now, I’m inclined to agree.”

  Maribel’s words pulled the plug on Bentley’s connection with Angela. He turned his attention to the senior woman. “What? Not you too. You sound just like your niece here. Now, I’ve only been a cop a few years, but that’s long enough to know that the better the evidence, the better the chances the guy did it. There’s no such thing as a case that’s too good.”

  “Oh, but there is such a beast,” chimed Maribel, as though regaling a roomful of youths with fantastic stories of mysterious worlds. “From what you’ve told us, Bundy was a career criminal, but not a particularly good one. He had a tendency to get caught, did he not? You didn’t mention any violence in his history, so there’s no reason to suppose he’d strike out and kill someone over the loss of job.”

  “As I said earlier, a man’s never a murderer until he kills somebody. Even the Christmas Village Creeper was free of that sin until the day he held that piece of rope in his hands and decided to -”

  “It’s the saw dust,” blurted Maribel.

  “Pardon?”

  “The sawdust. If Wilkinson confronted Bundy in that room, then where are Bundy’s footprints?”r />
  “I already thought of that. His prints aren’t in that room because he wasn’t in it. He was a knife thrower, remember? He could have thrown it from the hall.”

  “Perhaps, if he had been stabbed, but Doc says he was cut. You youngsters would know better than me – and certainly my husband could tell us if he were here – but I don’t believe the Wisenheimers in their labs with the white coats have figured out a knife that flies in a room, cuts left to right or right to left, and floats back out the way it came in.”

  “She’s right,” agreed Doc.

  Bentley rubbed his eyes. “I don’t pretend to be a knife expert. But Bundy was a knife expert, and he could have figured out a way. And who else but a lock pick could have locked the door without a key?”

  “Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” said Maribel as she stared at the carpet for answers. “And please forgive me for saying this, but I think you might be asking the wrong question.”

  “And what question is that?”

  “How. You’re asking ‘How’ when I think perhaps you should be asking ‘Why’. I don’t disagree that Mr. Bundy might possess the wherewithal to cut a man’s throat, or the skill to lock a door without a key, or that given the proper time and inclination could devise a method of committing such a murder without leaving any sign of his presence. When we ask ‘How’ and ‘What’, you have answers, and those answers lead directly to Mr. Bundy.”

  “I won’t disagree with that.”

  “I’m just a doting old woman with nothing better to do than to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, so please feel free to disregard my ravings. But…”

  “You’re no such thing, and whatever you have to say is more than welcome by me.”

  Maribel beamed bright between cherry red cheeks. “Perhaps if you were to ask ‘Why’, you’d see that the answers you’ve received by asking ‘How’ and ‘What’ cease to make any sense.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “Yes, Maribel, what do you mean?” said Doc.

  “If Mr. Bundy were caught unaware with the news that he was going to be fired that night, then when would he have had the time to figure out a way to enter a room with dust on the floor and yet leave no prints? I believe we can all agree that whatever the method, it was ingenious. And the man you’ve described to us seems to be nothing of the sort. No disrespect intended to Mr. Bundy.”

  “Who knows, Maribel? Criminals, even dumb ones, can be cunning. If we could figure out all their tricks, there’d be no crime and I’d be out of a job. And we don’t know when Bundy found out he was being fired. It could have been days ago. I imagine a lot of people in that group gossip.”

  “But you see, if the wood was cut not long before the murder, then Mr. Bundy would have had no cause to be concerned about foot prints, no matter how long in advance he might have planned the murder. But that’s not what bugs me the most.”

  “Me either,” said Angela.

  “Oh yeah, Scoopy Doo? And what is it that bothers you?” said Bentley, trying to be playful, but the look on Angela’s face was all business.

  “If you’re right and Bundy murdered Wilkinson, then he went to an awful lot of trouble to not leave any tracks. Yet he must have known that everything else about the murder, from the cut throat to the locked door, screamed his name. As a lock picking, knife throwing, convicted criminal, he had to expect he’d be the prime suspect. So why bother walking on air to kill a man when you know you’re going to go down for it anyway?”

  “Such a bright girl,” said Maribel, her always rosy cheeks in full bloom. “Hard to believe you’re my brother’s daughter.”

  “Auntie, please. Well, Deputy Bentley?”

  “I don’t know, all right? I don’t have all the answers. But maybe we’re making too much out of this foot print thing. What if it was all just an accident? What if Bundy stormed into that room after Wilkinson and just happened to step in the foot prints already made by Wilkinson with those big boots of his? He cuts Wilkinson’s throat, turns, and leaves the same way. He might not have even noticed the dust on the floor.”

  The other three were stunned for a moment. Angela was the first to speak. “That actually makes sense in a pedestrian sort of way.”

  “Thanks…or same to you. I’m not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.”

  “I hate to rain on your parade, Deputy -”Doc Wilcox had spent the last couple of minutes leaning against the wall and wiping his glasses. Now that he was ready to take his turn, he replaced his glasses and stepped away from the wall, taking his place in the light. “- but I’m afraid that theory doesn’t fit the evidence. You see, Mr. Wilkinson’s boots were tailor-made for him, and for whatever reason, he had the letter ‘W’ emblazoned on the soul of each boot and another ‘W’ on each heel. I would imagine it was to signify his persona of ‘Wild Willy’. But what’s important is that when he stepped in the dust these W’s left their mark as well, and when I saw them with my own eyes they were as fresh as the moment he left them.”

  Bentley sighed. “So, we’re back to square one.”

  Angela flipped through her little notebook. “Since we’re stuck on square one for the time being, let me just recap and you three can tell me if I’ve missed anything pertinent.”

  “Now, I thought we were just talking,” Doc said, waving a finger. “I don’t want any quotes in the paper without my say so.”

  “You’ve got my word on that, Doctor Wilcox. I think at this point we all just want to know what happened.”

  “Very well then, let’s hear what you’ve got.”

  Angela took a deep breath as though she were preparing to sing, but instead she began quoting from her notes. “Let’s see, we have Willard Wilkinson seen inside the prop room at six-fifteen, alone and with the door open. At six-fifty-nine, Carlton Moore, the theater manager, is summoned to unlock the door and the body is discovered. It is some five feet into the room, the floor of which is covered in fresh saw dust. There are two sets of foot prints in the room, neither of which could have belonged to the killer. The victim died of a severed carotid artery. No weapon was found in the room. The only entrance and exit to the room is the door that leads into the hall. The deadbolt on the door was found locked, but the only keys were with Mr. Wilkinson and Carlton Moore, who is known to have been nowhere near the room at the time the murder must have been committed. The only suspect we have is Tex Bundy, a convicted thief and known lock pick who performed as a knife thrower. Bundy had the means, motive, and opportunity to commit the murder, though there’s still no explanation for the lack of foot prints. Either Bundy is guilty, or somebody is working hard to make him look guilty. Does that about sum it up?”

  “That’s about it as far as I can tell,” said Doc. “But for what it’s worth, the cut on the neck was on the right side of his throat and moved from back to front. If the killer were standing behind him, as I would expect, that would make him left-handed.”

  “What if the killer were standing in front of him?” asked Angela.

  “Same thing. It would take a southpaw to make that cut. But it’s all mox nix since no one else was in the room with him.”

  All the fight seemed to have left Bentley, who merely nodded in agreement. “Well, all is not lost. The sheriff is grilling Bundy, Deputy Shelton is still taking statements from some of the hands, and Deputy Pace is going through everyone’s cell phones. We might catch a break yet.”

  Maribel chuckled. “You are most right, young man. All is most certainly not lost.”

  “I know that tone, Auntie,” said Angela. “You have an idea, don’t you?”

  “An idea? Yes, oh yes. Nothing more, though. Deputy Bentley, am I to understand that Mrs. Wilkinson and Mr. Dandridge are being sequestered somewhere as we speak?”

  “Yes, they’re in rooms down the west hall. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve never had the privilege of meeting a real-life western performer. I thought I might drop in and say ‘hello’.”

&nbs
p; Maribel slowly walked along the hallway indicated by Bentley, trying to find one of the subjects with whom she’d like to speak. She realized she’d never experienced the theater in such solitude before and took a moment to appreciate the wooden trim that ran along and through the ornate designs hand-painted on the walls more than a century before.

  Maribel loved old buildings and amused herself by imagining that she could sense the history in them; that for the briefest of moments she could reach into the worlds of those who had stood in a spot before her. She heard the sound of sobbing and the faint cry of “Please, let me out of here.” This was not the past she was hearing, it was the here and now, and it was emanating from a room just a few doors up from where she stood.

  She knocked and opened the door without waiting for a response. Sitting alone in the room behind a clerk’s abandoned desk was an attractive woman who Maribelplaced somewhere in her early to middle thirties. She couldn’t be more certain than that on account of the torrents of tears and smeared make-up.

  “Mrs. Wilkinson?”

  “Who are you? Please get me out of here. I’ve been sitting here for hours.”

  “I’m sure the sheriff will see to you any time now. Please excuse me, Mrs. Wilkinson, and accept my deepest sympathies for your loss. My name is Maribel Claus. I can only imagine what you’re going through. I didn’t like the thought of you left all alone in this room and thought I’d drop in to see if there’s anything you need. Water? Some tissue?”

  Maribel noticed that Pinky’s left hand was streaked in make-up from wiping at her tear-sodden face. She also noticed that the cherry red nail polish on her left index finger was chipped.

  “Yes, I could use some tissue. Or a towel.”

  Maribel reached into her shoulder bag and produced a travel pack of tissue and set it on the desk. “Here you go, dear.” Pinky grabbed for it with her streaked hand.

  “Thank you,” said Pinky. “So you don’t work with the police?”

  “No, no. You could say I’m just here to make sure they do their jobs properly.”

  “Well, they’re not, I can tell you that. My husband is murdered and they lock me in this room, don’t tell me what’s going on. Nothing.”