Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen (16 page)

Russ grinned at me over the rim of his wineglass. He'd ordered an excellent pinot noir from Oregon. “Not a lot of newspaper people want to move to a small town or work for a local paper, but it came at the right time for me, and
I don't have a wife or kids to worry about uprooting. My family's from Louisiana . . .”

“I noticed.”

He gave me a grin. “. . . and my parents figure New York City, New York State, it's all one and the same. Foreign. Might as well be in France.”

I laughed.

“It's been a heck of a learning curve, I can tell you. From New Orleans to New York City to Rudolph, but I'm glad I made the move. There's something about this town . . .”

“I know. I don't think I realized how much I'd missed it until I came back.”

The waiter delivered our first course. I'd ordered a salad, and Russ had the potato and leek soup. As this was Rudolph in December the menu featured a roast turkey dinner “with all the trimmings” and prime rib. Desserts included candy cane cheesecake, traditional plum pudding with brandy sauce, and plenty of homemade pies.

“Do you have a sense,” I asked, “about the upcoming local election?”

“That question came out of nowhere,” he said.

“Something happened today that got me thinking.”

“Fergus is planning to run again, but he's facing some stiff competition. Mostly from Sue-Anne Morrow.”

“Does she have a chance?”

Russ put down his soup spoon. “Last week I might have said it would be a close race. Fergus is a known quantity. Solid, reliable. Dull as dirt, but people like that in a mayor. If things are going well they don't want someone who will upset the apple cart. That's Fergus. On the other hand, there
are people worried that things aren't going to keep going well. That if the tourists are going to continue coming, we have to innovate, make some changes. That's Sue-Anne.”

“You said ‘last week'?”

“This Nigel Pearce thing has changed the dynamic. Even the slightest hint that tourists will stop coming has people in a panic.” Russ waved his hand, indicating our surroundings. “This is probably not a bad turnout for a Thursday night, but they'd rather be full. What's this week been like in your shop?”

“Quiet, I have to admit.”

“I made a few phone calls before coming to meet you, and it seems like the Twitter campaign and Renee's pictures on the
Times
web page have done some good. A bus company rebooked at the Yuletide Inn, and the Carolers Motel says they have a couple of new reservations.”

“That's great,” I said.

“It is. But people, some people, are saying Fergus should have acted sooner, and faster.”

“Some people are always complaining. We should give him credit for what he did do.”

Russ lifted his wineglass. “I'll drink to that.” The candlelight picked out the green specks in his hazel eyes. He hadn't shaved before coming to dinner, and the stubble on his jaw was dark.

I took a quick drink. “So,” I said when I had my thoughts back on track, “Sue-Anne Morrow stands to gain from the disruption of the Rudolph Christmas season.”

“What are you getting at, Merry?”

“I don't know. She was in my shop earlier. She's going
public with her run for mayor. She's openly saying that Fergus's reaction was, and I quote, ‘too little, too late.' That a strong mayor would have handled things differently.”

Russ put down his wineglass. “You think Sue-Anne poisoned Nigel Pearce?”

All around us conversation hummed, people laughed, cutlery clinked against china, and glasses and serving dishes rattled.

“Someone did,” I reminded him. “You're the reporter. What are the police thinking?”

“One of two things. That someone came to Rudolph with, or in search of, Pearce. They took advantage of the situation at the party, added the drugs to the cookie, and left town.”

“And the other theory?”

“The poisoning was random, no victim in particular, just a chance sort of thing.”

“That would definitely not be good news for a tourist town.”

“Exactly. Far better that Pearce brought his enemy with him. And thus, of course, the enemy is long gone.”

“Easy enough to have happened that way,” I said. “I was at the party. So were you. The place was full of outsiders. That's the entire point of the post-parade reception. It's not a party for townspeople, it's to get tourists in the Christmas mood. Otherwise known as spending money.”

“The police have been through the pictures I took that evening,” he said. “Looking for someone”—he made quotation marks in the air—“‘acting suspiciously.'”

“I've been thinking about that anonymous phone call,” I said. “The one telling you the results of the autopsy.”

“What about it?”

“Did you think it odd?”

“Not really. We get plenty of anonymous calls in my business. Sometimes people want to stir things up. Neighbors tattling on neighbors, fathers trying to get their daughter's boyfriends in trouble, women reporting the woman they think their husband's having an affair with. Sometimes the calls are legitimate. People who have something to say but for whatever reason don't want to come forward publicly. That call was definitely the latter. It was a piece of solid info.”

“You didn't recognize the voice?”

“No. It was disguised.”

“Could it have been a woman?”

“It could have been a talking horse. Why are you asking, Merry?”

“Pasta?”

I jumped at the voice over my shoulder. The waiter had our main courses. He placed a bowl of fragrant pasta, rich with seafood and herbs, in front of me. Russ was having steak and fries.

“Russ,” I said when we'd enjoyed our first few bites, “do you remember the parade? Remember my float?”

“I remember that you caused a traffic jam and Candy Campbell was ready to throw the book at you.” He grinned.

I opened my mouth to tell him about the tractor. About George discovering that someone had switched the wires.

“Merry, dear. How lovely you look.” My mom bent over and brushed my cheek with her lips. “And Russell. How nice.” Russ leapt to his feet and took her gloved hand.

“Hi, Mom,” I said. “Dad.”

My dad gave me a nod. He was not in his Santa Claus attire
tonight, but was instead wearing a hideous and totally tasteless red and green Christmas sweater over jeans. Mom wore a sparkling gold tunic over loose matching trousers, with diamonds in her ears and a thick gold chain around her neck.

“I'd invite you to join us,” Russ said, “but . . .” He indicated the table for two.

“We wouldn't dream of interrupting you,” Mom said. “Enjoy your dinner.”

The hostess was still waiting to seat them. Mom followed her across the room, smiling and waving at people she knew as though she were doing her sixth encore at the Met.

“What brings you guys here tonight?” I asked Dad. My parents rarely went out for dinner together. In this, like so many other things, they were total opposites. Dad liked to eat at home. Mom loved to dine in restaurants, the fancier the better. They compromised, as they usually did, and Mom met up with her friends once or twice a week, leaving Dad to eat his reheated meal on a tray in the company of a good book.

“Aline suggested that we, as prominent citizens of the town, be seen supporting local businesses. She was right, as always, so here I am.”

“Good for you, Dad,” I said.

“Did you see the pictures on the
Times
web page this afternoon?” Russ asked.

“I did.” Dad grinned. “I think we nailed it.” He glanced around the restaurant. “Let's hope we can get through the next two weeks without any more tragedies or mishaps.” He went to join my mom.

“Your father's a great guy,” Russ said. “Is Noel his real name? It's just that he does look like Santa Claus, in or out of costume.”

“He was born on Christmas Day, thus the name,” I said.

“And your mom. Aline Steiner. Wow.”

“You know who my mom is?”

“I'm not a total philistine, Merry.” He tried to look offended but the laughter in his eyes gave him away. “My parents are classical music lovers. I even own one of your mom's CDs.”

“Ask her to autograph it one day,” I said. “She'll be thrilled. She gave up the opera world when she retired from singing, but I suspect she misses it sometimes.”

“I'll do that. But right now, I'm going to have a slice of that candy cane cheesecake. Something for you?”

“Just coffee, thanks.” We went on to talk about other things, and it was only as I was putting on my coat prior to heading out into the cold, bright night, that I realized I'd intended to tell him about the sabotage to the tractor. But he'd started talking about winter, and how surprised he'd been, as a Louisiana boy, to find he liked it so much.

“You'll fit in perfectly here in Rudolph,” I said, taking his arm. “And to make you feel right at home, we do Christmas all over again on July twenty-fifth.”

We walked through the dark, quiet streets of Rudolph. Neither of us had said anything, but Russ had simply fallen into step beside me. Perfectly natural for a man to walk his date home, I reminded myself. Overhead the stars were as heavy and brilliant as they can only be in the cold night air. A few people were window-shopping, and as we passed Mrs. Claus's Treasures, I heard a woman say to her companion, “Isn't that the most darling nutcracker soldier.”

Russ gave me an exaggerated wink.

I keep the lights outside and in the store window tasteful
and subdued, white mostly with a touch of ice blue for color. Next door, the Nook glowed with enough red and green bulbs to provide energy to a nuclear power plant.

We reached my house. I stopped and gently took my hand out of Russ's grip.

“It's still early,” he said. “Are you going to invite me in for a nightcap?”

I took a deep breath. “It's early, yes. But I have a very busy day tomorrow.”

“Another time, maybe,” he said.

“Another time.” I turned and walked up the walkway. The front curtain twitched. Poor Mrs. D'Angelo would be mighty disappointed.

Inside, Mattie began a loud chorus of greeting.

I
stepped back to admire my handiwork. The shop positively gleamed and I was pretty sure the smiles on the faces of the stuffed Santas hadn't been as broad yesterday. The decorations on the Douglas fir in the corner glowed as if lit from inside, the china platters and glass ornaments were brushed clean of the slightest speck of dust. When I'd arrived at the shop, grumbling at the darkness of a December morning, I'd been pleased to see several gaps on the shelves and display cabinets. Crystal and Jackie must have had a busy evening. I happily restocked the shelves while jotting notes on my iPad of what I was running out of and would have to reorder.

I'd stopped at Victoria's Bake Shoppe for a latte and blueberry scone but didn't even have a chance to say hi to Vicky. I could see over the counter and through the glass windows into the bakery, where she and her assistants were nothing
but a blur of activity. Tonight was Midnight Madness, the start of what was hopefully the busiest weekend of the year for the shops and restaurants in Rudolph.

Business owners were concerned that numbers were down compared to last year; some reservations that had been cancelled after news of the death of Nigel Pearce got out hadn't been rebooked. But we were an optimistic lot in Rudolph—all that Christmas spirit—and we were determined to pretend that everything was back to normal.

While I worked I put on a CD of my mom singing Christmas songs, and soon found myself singing along. I'd never recovered from the time I overheard her telling a friend that my voice put her in mind of a chorus of frogs in a pond at dusk, calling out in search of mates. I loved to sing, but from that day on I made sure no one was in hearing range. All of my musical talent was inherited from my dad, meaning I had absolutely none.

Fortunately for Mom, who had high hopes of children following in her footsteps, my sister Carole had a marvelous voice as well as the drive to succeed. Carole wouldn't be home for Christmas this year, as she was touring Europe in the chorus of a production of
Carmen
.

At ten to nine I was ready. I was debating whether or not I had time to sprint up the street for another latte, maybe a bagel with cream cheese this time, when a rap sounded on the door. I was about to tap my wrist, to indicate that we weren't open yet, but one look at the face peering in the window put a stop to that.

Detective Simmonds. And she didn't look as though she were a woman on a shopping spree. Officer Candice Campbell accompanied her. Candy's scowl was firmly in place.

I opened the door. “Good morning, Detective. What can I do for you?”

“Do you have a few minutes, Merry?”

I debated saying no, just to see what Simmonds would do. But I didn't have a death wish, so I stepped back. “Come on in. I'm opening in a couple of minutes, but I won't get many customers before eleven.”

Simmonds wandered about my shop, checking everything out. Candy stood in the doorway, her legs apart, her hand resting on the butt of her gun. I almost told her to relax, I wasn't going to make a break for it. Then I remembered that death wish thing and kept my mouth shut.

“Beautiful shop,” Simmonds said at last. She ran her fingers over the smooth blue stones on a chain of turquoise and silver.

“Thanks. I like it.”

“You have some lovely things.” She picked up one of Alan Anderson's wooden soldiers.

“Many of our goods are made locally.”

“That's good to know.”

Candy shifted from one foot to another.

Simmonds put down the soldier. “Tell me about Nigel Pearce.”

“I've already told you everything I know. Which isn't much. I never saw him before he came into the shop Saturday afternoon. He introduced himself, took some pictures, left.”

“You saw him later, though?”

“I told you that, too. At the reception at the community center. In the presence of a good hundred or more people.”

“And that,” Simmonds said, “seems to be the problem. A
couple of hundred people saw him there, knew who he was. Many of them spoke to him or had their picture taken by him. I hate to sound melodramatic, but did you notice anyone acting suspiciously?”

I shrugged. “How do you define ‘suspiciously'? He was a photographer from a major magazine. People wanted to meet him. They wanted him to photograph them. If I saw anyone deliberately avoiding him, I'd call that suspicious. But I didn't.”

“We've been through the pictures on his camera. He took plenty of a woman in a very fancy gown. I've been told that's your mother.”

“My mom used to be an opera singer. She was quite the diva in her day.” I refrained from saying that she still thinks she is. “She knows how to play for the camera. Besides, she and her students did look mighty good in their costumes. Perfect for photos. Ask Candy, there. I mean, Officer Campbell.”

Behind me, Candy's boots shifted once again.

“I did,” Simmonds said. “I also interviewed your mother. She claims never to have met Mr. Pearce before that day.”

“If that's what she says then that's the truth. My mother is never anything but totally honest.” And wasn't that the truth. Whether commenting on my singing voice or what she thought of Max Folger, my almost-fiancé (now ex-almost-fiancé) I could always count on Mom to be brutally honest, and usually right.

“The camera was also full of shots of a woman identified to me as Jackie O'Reilly. I didn't see anything particularly Christmassy about Ms. O'Reilly that Mr. Pearce could use in his story.”

“Jackie's pretty,” I said. “Men like to take pictures of pretty young women.”

Behind me, Candy stifled a snort.

“True,” Simmonds said. “Ms. O'Reilly works for you?”

“Yes.”

“Does she have a husband? A boyfriend?” Simmonds fixed her cool green eyes on me.

As if she didn't know.
I doubted Detective Simmonds ever asked a question she didn't already know the answer to.

“She's not married. She's going out with someone, I think.”

“His name?”

“Kyle Lambert.”

“Is this Kyle a jealous sort?”

“I have no idea.” I don't know why I lied. Maybe because I didn't care for the direction these questions were taking. I didn't want to be getting anyone into trouble. Besides, I had given it some thought. If Kyle had been angry at Nigel for paying attention to Jackie, he wouldn't have poisoned a cookie. He'd have slugged the guy. Then again, was it possible the poison hadn't been what ultimately killed Nigel? Had he thrown most of it up, into the snow in the park, and been followed by Kyle and finished off when he was at his weakest? I knew nothing at all about autopsies, but didn't it take time to get detailed test results back? I'd check with Dad later, see if he'd heard any further results.

“If we're finished here,” I said through a strained smile, “it's time for me to open up.”

Simmonds walked slowly toward the door. She peered out, looking carefully left and then right. She saw no
impatient lines. No one was anxious to begin an orgy of frantic shopping.

“I get your point,” I said, “but I have work to do to get ready.”

“Tell me about the cookies,” Simmonds said.

“I already have,” I said.

“Tell me again.”

So I repeated everything I knew about the special tray of gingerbread cookies and the Charles Dickens one prepared specifically for Nigel Pearce. “Vicky Casey,” I said, “did not kill Nigel Pearce.”

“I know that,” Simmonds said.

“She wouldn't . . . What?”

“Ms. Casey is an intelligent woman as well as a proud business owner. No one cold-blooded enough to poison a cookie would be dumb enough to do something that would so directly point the finger at herself.”

I thought of mystery books I'd read full of double binds and triple-crosses and deliberate misperception. I decided not to point that out.

“Besides,” Simmonds said, “I have a passion for croissants and it's been a long time since I've tasted any as good as hers. I wouldn't want to see those pastries being prepared in the kitchen of a women's prison.”

“Huh?”

“That was a joke, Ms. Wilkinson.”

“A joke. Right.” I laughed. Candy laughed, too.

“Thank you for your time. I'll leave you to open. You're going to be part of this Midnight Madness?”

“Yup. I'll be here all night.”

“I might stop by later. You do have some lovely things.”

Warmed by her praise, I felt bold. “People are saying that someone must have come with Nigel. Either with him, or followed him here. Are you investigating that?”

“Of course we are,” Candy snapped. “We're not total fools, you know.”

“That's a good question,” Simmonds said.

“Humph,” Candy said.

“Mr. Pearce arrived in Rudolph, as far as we can tell, alone. He checked into the hotel alone, and the housekeepers say that only one person seems to have used the room. As for whether someone followed him here, it's hard to say. This is a tourist town and there were a lot of visitors on Saturday. He wasn't observed spending any particular amount of time with anyone other than the local people he was supposedly here to write about.”

“Was he ever in any trouble, back in England, say? Maybe the person who followed him to Rudolph didn't want to be obvious? Not if he was planning to kill him.”

“We have some indication that Mr. Pearce wasn't loved wherever he went,” Simmonds said. “He seemed to have used his position as a travel journalist and photographer to, shall we say, get friendly with young women.”

“How young?”

“Not so young there was anything illegal going on. That we know of. But his trips didn't always result in him leaving a trail of friends behind.”

Jackie. How far would she have gone to get herself featured in
World Journey
magazine, anyway? And, if she did what she thought she had to do, how would she have reacted when not so much as a single photo made it into print?

Her rage would have been something to behold. Fortunately for Jackie, it hadn't come to that. Fortunately for the jealous Kyle as well.

Had some other spurned wannabe model or angry boyfriend followed Pearce to Rudolph? That gave me an idea. “Why would he have been in the park that night? Alone. After dark. That seems strange, doesn't it? You'd think a man like that would go for dinner, have a couple of drinks. Do you think he might have been meeting someone?”

“We've been told that Mr. Pearce was a recovering alcoholic. He'd been sober for many years, but like most alcoholics, he found it hard in strange places. It was apparently his habit to take a long walk before dinner to work off the urge.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Thanks for your time, Merry,” Simmonds said. “Uh . . .”

“Yes?”

“That turquoise necklace. I don't suppose you could put it aside for me?”

“I'd be happy to,” I said.

“Thanks. I'll be back later.”

The police left. I followed them to the door to flip the sign.

I might have spent longer than necessary looking out onto the quiet street. I couldn't help but notice that Simmonds and Candy's next stop was Rudolph's Gift Nook.

At three o'clock the police closed off Jingle Bell Lane. For the rest of the night Rudolph's main shopping street would be pedestrian only. Carts and tables were set up as shops and eating establishments spilled out onto the sidewalk and into the road. The butcher shop brought out a hot
dog stand; Vicky erected a table outside her front door, selling gingerbread and other Christmas cookies; the Cranberry Coffee Bar was serving hot drinks. Crowds began to gather and business was brisk as the day turned to twilight. By five o'clock night had fallen.

My dad wandered the street in full regalia, ho-ho-ho-ing, followed by Alan Anderson in his toymaker costume. Children, wide-eyed and openmouthed, watched them. I always got a particular kick out of the older children, the ones who were starting to question the existence of Santa. My dad and Alan could usually convince them to hold on to their childhood for another year, at least.

My mom also was doing the rounds. She wore a long black cape with an emerald silk lining and matching stitching, and a fake-fur hat. She wouldn't have looked out of place on a Russian troika as it dashed though the snowy woods pulled by three black horses, pursued by a pack of howling, starving wolves. She led four of her adult students, dressed in an assortment of Victorian dresses, capes, and hats. They popped in and out of shops and restaurants, singing carols to the delight of shoppers.

The night was cold and crisp. It didn't snow, but clouds were thick overhead, blocking the moon and stars. The town was illuminated by so many Christmas lights I wondered if it was visible from space.

A small stage had been erected at one end of Jingle Bell Lane, in front of the community center. A children's band played music and clowns walked through the crowd, doing magic tricks or twisting balloons into ornate animal shapes. The object of all this activity was to get people into the stores, and in that, the day didn't disappoint.