Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen (20 page)

It had been a good day. The night had passed without incident. The town had one more special event planned
before Christmas, an outdoor children's party next Saturday afternoon. There'd be skating on a cleared patch of the bay, a snowman-making contest, various games, and plenty of food. Dad and his helpers would be busy and Mom's children's classes were scheduled to perform.

I dared to hope that whoever our grinch was, they'd achieved whatever they'd wanted.

When I walked into my apartment, a foul smell greeted me. A few sniffs brought me to the trash can under the kitchen sink and the realization that I hadn't thrown the garbage out since I didn't know when. I'd had fish a few nights ago, and had bought more than I needed. The remains were doing what the remains of fish do. I was exhausted, and debated leaving it until morning, but I feared it would attract bugs. I pulled the bag out of the trash can, knotted the edges together, and carried the stinking mess downstairs, while Mattie danced at my feet hoping to get a chance to dig his nose in. I threw the bag into the outdoor garbage can by the back door, hoping it would be frozen solid by morning.

I was absolutely beat and looking forward to a long, luxurious lie-in tomorrow. The store didn't open until noon on Sunday, and it would close at six.

Heaven.

And then I was invited to dinner at Alan's. By staying for dinner, did Alan mean
stay for dinner as long as you're here anyway, Merry
or did he mean something more like
stay for dinner as I want to be with you, Merry?

I was still trying to decide when I fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of Mattie barking. My room was
pitch-dark, the way I like it when I sleep. I told Mattie to hush, and rolled over.

He didn't hush. His barking got louder, more frantic.

“Mattie! Be quiet. You're going to wake the baby. Come here.” I patted the covers. My eyes slowly became accustomed to the ambient light. The bedroom door was closed and Mattie was scratching at it, trying to get out.

I groaned. I could ignore him and have a mess to clean up in the morning, or get up, let him out, and go back to sleep. I climbed out of bed. His potty training was coming along pretty well, considering how little time I had to devote to him. I ought to be pleased that he knew to ask to go out.

I'd be pleased in the morning.

I opened the bedroom door and he charged down the stairs, still barking. I followed, alternately stumbling and grumbling.

I froze, my foot on the bottom step. Mattie wasn't barking now, but whining. His head was down and he was sniffing at the bottom of the door. I smelled smoke. Something crackled. The light coming through the small window in the door was a shifting red and orange.

Fire!

I screamed. And then I, very foolishly, threw open the door. Mattie yelped, turned tail, and headed back upstairs.

Flames were shooting out of the garbage can. The lid was lying about two feet away. I was absolutely certain I'd fastened the lid properly after I put the trash bag into it. I live in a neighborhood of big old trees, meaning lots of squirrels and the occasional raccoon: little creatures
with dexterous paws, clever brains, and love of human garbage.

I headed for the lid, intending to snap it down onto the can, hoping that would put the fire out, but before I could reach it my neighbor Steve arrived with a small kitchen fire extinguisher. “Merry, get out of the way,” he yelled. I leapt back and he sprayed the garbage.

It went out almost instantly. The fire had been much smaller than it had looked to my frightened eyes, silhouetted against the dark yard and the black sky. Steve and I hesitantly ventured close and peered into the can. The plastic bag on top was smoldering. I held my breath against the acrid scent of burning plastic.

We could hear sirens approaching.

“Wendy called 911,” Steve explained.

“You were quick,” I said.

“We have a baby. That makes you quick. I figured something was wrong by the way Mattie was barking. Not his usual bark. I looked out the window and could see the fire. What the heck happened?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Where is Mattie, anyway?” Steve asked.

“Hiding.” At that moment the dog came out of the house, twitching nose first, checking to see if it was safe.

Sirens screamed to a halt in front of our house. “I'll stay here,” Steve said, “in case it starts up again. You meet them and bring them around back.”

An upstairs window flew open. “What's happening, honey?” Wendy called.

“Fire's out,” Steve answered. “You can go back to bed.”

Mattie followed me as I ran around the house. Lights
began coming on inside our house, as well as in other homes up and down the street.

“Over here,” I called. “At the back.”

Firefighters ran past me. “It's out now,” I added.

I joined the group standing around my smoldering garbage can.

“Better finish it off,” one of the firefighters said. He aimed his hose at the can and flooded the thing.

“What on earth is going on here?” Mrs. D'Angelo demanded. She'd thrown on a coat over her nightgown, but hadn't done it up. I had the presence of mind to be surprised that tonight she was sleeping in a sexy sleek peach nightgown, elaborately adorned with lace and ribbons. Neighbors, in various assortments of hastily grabbed outerwear and pajamas, followed her.

“Whose garbage is this?” the firefighter asked.

“Mine.”

He glared at me. “You'd better be more careful about what you're throwing out. Did you forget to extinguish a cigarette or something?”

“I don't smoke.”

Mrs. D'Angelo squealed, “You could have burned down my house!”

“I didn't . . .”

“You folks are lucky there's no wind tonight,” the firefighter said. “That garbage can's mighty close to the house. A couple of sparks, a finger of flame, and up it all goes.”

“Poof,” one of the neighbors helpfully added.

“I don't smoke,” I repeated. But no one was paying any attention to me. Mrs. D'Angelo was telling Mrs. Patterson from next door that she'd had “the fright of my life,” and
the firefighter was praising Steve for having a working fire extinguisher and knowing how to use it. Mattie sniffed pajama bottoms and boots.

“One more incident from you,” Mrs. D'Angelo said to me, “and I'll be reviewing the terms of your lease. Why, I might have lost my home. Just wait until I tell your father about this.”

“I don't smoke,” I repeated.

“I'm feeling quite faint,” she said to the firefighter, who just happened to be young and very handsome. “Perhaps you could help me inside.”

“I've got you, Mable,” Mrs. Patterson said, grabbing Mrs. D'Angelo's arm. “Let me make you a nice cup of tea to settle your nerves.”

Eventually they all left, the neighbors exclaiming over what a close call they'd had, and the firefighters warning me to be more careful disposing of my cigarette ends.

“I don't smoke,” I said to Steve when only he and I were left standing beside the remains of my garbage can.

“I know you don't. What do you suppose happened, Merry?”

We studied the soggy ruin. “I've been at the store all day. I came home twice to feed the dog and let him out. I didn't use the stove or light any candles or anything like that. I threw week-old fish out before going to bed. Can rotten fish self-combust?”

“No.”

“I didn't think so.” I glanced around the yard. Every inch of snow was churned by Mattie's paws, and then overlaid by the footprints of the firefighters and neighbors. Before everyone arrived, I hadn't thought to check for marks in the
snow. Probably wouldn't have mattered anyway. The yard was fenced, but the sidewalk had been shoveled after the last snowfall.

“Strange things have been happening around here, Merry,” Steve said.

“Don't I know it.”

“Wendy says everyone at town hall is on edge. They're all waiting for something else to happen. And I think it just did. Do you want me to call the firefighters back? Someone should check the garbage.”

“For what?”

“An accelerant, maybe. You say nothing in that garbage was likely to cause a fire, and I believe you.”

“Leave it,” I said. “I want to go back to bed. I just want all this to be over.”

“You take care, Merry.”

“I will. And you, too.”

“Count on it,” he said, and he went back to his little family and his bed.

I called Mattie and we also went back to bed. But I didn't get another minute of
sleep.

I
n the weak gray light of an early winter's morning, the garbage can looked like something out of a postapocalyptic movie. I stood on the step in my pajamas, clutching a mug of coffee and studying the remains. Mattie had given the sodden black ruin a good long sniff and then run about the yard checking up on all the wonderful scents that had been deposited last night.

The fire had been terrifying, but overnight I'd realized that we hadn't been in any real danger. If an accelerant had been added, whoever'd done it hadn't used much. Only the top of the garbage was burned. Even if the whole can had caught fire, it wouldn't have been likely to spread. The yard was covered in snow, and the house was a solid brick Victorian. Nothing was lying around that could catch fire, the trees were draped in snow, and the wooden fence was far away, protected by deep drifts.

It was entirely possible this had been nothing but a prank by a bunch of stupid, bored kids.

Except for all the other incidents.

Although I couldn't see how setting my garbage on fire would ruin Christmas in Rudolph, if that was the arsonist's aim. Maybe all they wanted to do was to scare people?

It had worked. I'd been scared. Now I was getting angry. Fire wasn't something to play with, and a baby had been sleeping overhead.

So much for sleeping in. I went inside and made a quick phone call. Then I poured my coffee down the sink and pulled on jeans and a sweater and headed into town.

Detective Simmonds was sitting at a table in Victoria's Bake Shoppe when I got there. It was eight o'clock on the Sunday morning after Midnight Madness and she was the only customer. The whole town would be sleeping in this morning.

I wondered if Simmonds ever slept. She was perfectly put together in a red leather jacket, black slacks, and oxblood ankle boots. Her unpainted nails were neatly trimmed, her hair was curled at the ends and tucked behind her ears, and a touch of blush and pale pink lipstick gave her face some color.

I, on the other hand, had a tumbled mess of curls, black circles under my eyes, chewed fingernails, and I hadn't noticed a grease stain on the front of my shirt until now.

Without asking what I wanted, Vicky brought me a mug of coffee and a blueberry scone. Simmonds was having coffee, black.

“You should have called me last night,” she said after I'd related my story.

“I was tired and wanted to forget about it. No harm done. Except that I now have to buy a new garbage can. And my landlady is looking for ways to get rid of me.”

“Don't make jokes, Merry,” Vicky said. “It could have been serious.”

“That's the point,” I said. “It couldn't have gotten out of control. Whoever did it must have known that.” I threw up my hands. “Who knows, maybe I did light a candle last night or something.”

“I'm sending someone around to pick up that garbage can,” Simmonds said. “I want to have it looked at. Are you in the habit of lighting candles late at night when you get home from work and then throwing them in the garbage?”

“No.”

“Then it's unlikely you did so last night.”

“This is all getting seriously weird,” Vicky said.

“I agree,” Simmonds said. “What I find interesting is how minor these events seem to be. Minor, except that we have to remember that a man died.”

“Yeah, after eating one of my cookies,” Vicky said. “Would you like something to eat, Detective?”

Simmonds grinned. “To show my support, I'll have one of those scones. They do look great.”

Vicky snapped her fingers and pointed to the last bit of scone disappearing into my mouth. I've always wanted to be able to snap my fingers and have food appear. In this case, Vicky's assistant brought over the pastry on a plate. In New York if you snapped your fingers at a waiter, they'd throw you into the street so fast you wouldn't know what was happening. But everyone who worked at the bakery was some relative or other of Vicky's and they knew that
was just her way and not to take offense. Besides, the employee Vicky was hardest on was herself.

“Anything new happening with the murder investigation?” I dared to ask, hoping the delicious baking would mellow Simmonds.

She obliged. “Very little. Unlike what you see on TV it can be surprisingly difficult to find a killer if there are no friends or relatives in the picture and the killer hasn't bragged about what he's done or left a trail behind him. We've been in touch with the police in England, where Pearce lives, and they're running some checks, but so far, nothing. We may never know. I'm pretty sure someone followed Pearce here and then slipped out of town without being noticed.”

“I'd buy that, if it wasn't for all the other strange things. Starting with my float.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What about your float?”

“The tractor pulling my float in the Santa Claus parade was deliberately incapacitated. I put it down to someone playing a practical joke.” I avoided looking at Vicky. “But these jokes are no longer funny.”

“No,” Simmonds said. She finished her scone and got to her feet. She pulled her wallet out of her pocket.

“It's on me,” Vicky said.

“No it isn't. I can't be accused of taking bribes.” She put a couple of bills on the table. She then took out a square of white card and a pen. She turned the card over and scribbled on the back and handed it to me. “Keep this. I've put my personal cell number on the back. Call me anytime, day or night, if you have reason to be concerned. I'll let you know what we find in the garbage can. Take care.”

A lot of people seemed to be saying that to me lately. “I will.”

I shoved the card into my coat pocket as we watched the detective leave. She held the door open for George, who greeted her with a nod of the head. He gave the same greeting to us and ambled up to the counter to order a loaf of white bread and six dinner rolls. He was dressed in his usual attire of farm overalls and heavy work boots.

George looked like what he was. A farmer.

A twinge niggled at the back of my head. Someone else had grown up on a farm. I'd been told that recently. I couldn't remember who.

“Are you going to tell your dad what happened?” Vicky asked.

“I don't want to worry him.”

“No matter how old we get, it's always our parents' job to worry about us.”

“True. But not this time.”

“I'm thinking another trip to Muddle Harbor might be in order this afternoon,” Vicky said.

“Why?”

“They have got to be behind this. If they kill tourism in Rudolph, visitors'll go there.”

“If they kill tourism in Rudolph,” I said, “visitors will stay home or go to the city. They come here because it's Christmas Town. Muddle Harbor has nothing to offer.”

“You're assuming the Muddites are sensible people,” Vicky said. “That's an incorrect assumption. It's time for a show of force. Let them know we know what they're up to. I'll pick you up at closing. I'll bring some of my nephews, too.”

“Can't,” I said. “I have to head out of town and get some stock for the shop.”

“Leave it.”

“Don't wanna.”

She sighed. “I guess you're right. I don't think I could face another meal in that so-called café, anyway.”

I was grateful she didn't pursue the topic of where I was going for the stock. Back in high school, Vicky had maintained that Alan and I were “soul mates” and “meant for each other.” She'd been more upset than I when he and I went our separate ways after graduation. When I'd come back to Rudolph I could count on long, meaningful looks from her whenever his name was mentioned. Today, I did not need long, meaningful looks, nor did I need to find my own thoughts heading in that direction.

“What do you mean ‘another meal'?” I said. “You didn't have anything.”

“Simply being around all that grease was enough.”

“Vicky!” We looked up at a shout from the counter. “Phone call.”

She stood up. “Want another coffee?”

“Yes, please. And I'll have another scone, too. Make it one of those white-chocolate pecan ones this time.” What the heck, after the night I'd had I needed a two-scone day.

Vicky took the phone, and her assistant put a mug of hot coffee and my treat in front of me. The coffee smelled wonderful and the plump scone was thick with nuts and glistening with white chocolate.

I picked up the cup and cradled it in my hands, enjoying the warmth.

Think, Merry, think.

So far everything that had happened—my float, the poisoned cookie, the hot dog cart explosion—seemed designed to interrupt the Christmas celebrations. But the attack on my garbage can (and I felt foolish simply thinking that) was personal. The only person it scared was me. All the neighbors thought I was a careless smoker.

So, the question I had to ask was:

Why me?

Assuming the fire was not a teenage prank, why was I being targeted? What was special about me?

Nothing at all.

That I'd left Rudolph and gone to the city for a number of years and then come back? That was common enough around here as to be normal. That I owned a shop on Jingle Bell Lane? Again, why me? There were lots of shops on Jingle Bell Lane.

I did own the shop next to Betty Thatcher's Gift Nook. Betty didn't like me or the goods I sold. But if Mrs. Claus's Treasures were forced to close and I headed out of town with my tail between my legs, even she would know there's nothing worse for business than boarded-up shops on Main Street.

Did she want to get rid of me so much that she'd risk her own business in the process?

I tried to imagine Betty creeping around my backyard with a bottle of accelerant and a match. It wasn't a hard image to conjure up. I'd keep my eye on Betty.

Meanwhile, I could think of nothing special or unusual about me here in Rudolph. I was such an established part of Christmas Town; my dad was Santa Claus.

A fist closed over my heart. My dad was Santa Claus.

Who represented Christmas more than Santa Claus? What better way to ruin Christmas in Rudolph than by getting to my dad? Had I been the target from the very beginning, with the disabling of my float, or was it something new with the fire last night? I'd told Vicky I wasn't going to say anything to Mom or Dad about the fire. I didn't want to worry them.

Should I?

Should I warn Dad that he might be next?

I'd scarcely given another thought to that text message supposedly from Eve out in Los Angeles. I was thinking about it now. The message had not been from Eve. Eve was supposed to be out of cell phone range for a few days. Did whoever had been responsible know that, or was it just a lucky (for them) coincidence? The message had to have been intended to get Dad out of town. Have him fly to LA, rush from one hospital to another. He would have been gone for days. Probably even miss Midnight Madness.

No Santa at Midnight Madness?

Unthinkable!

If Mom had gone with him, then there would have been no carolers, either. Rudolph's much-vaunted Midnight Madness celebration would have been nothing more than another small-town shopping night.

We'd all assumed the killer knew the Charles Dickens cookie was made for Nigel Pearce. But what if he (or she) hadn't known that? What if the killer didn't understand the Charles Dickens and
A Christmas Carol
reference? What if they thought the beautiful, obviously very special, cookie was for Santa?

And, having failed to kill Santa, or at the least make him
ill, had they lost their nerve and tried softer or more easily available targets?

Was Santa Claus still their focus?

I glanced at my watch. It was eight thirty. Mom and Dad would still be home. Santa was off duty today, and they were going to Rochester later, meeting friends at the theater for a matinee production of
The Nutcracker
and then going out to dinner.

They'd be safely out of town all day. I'd give this all a lot more thought and call Dad tomorrow morning.

My dad would know what to do.

*   *   *

At midday I took advantage of a lull in customer traffic to oh-so-casually ask Jackie what she'd done the previous evening. She'd left work at seven, and I wanted to know if she'd been with Kyle at the time the fire started in my garbage.

She peered at me through narrowed eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just being friendly.”

She still looked suspicious, and I decided I needed to work on my friendly, concerned–employer role. Jackie glanced at Crystal. Crystal shrugged. “I had dinner at my mom's. Exciting, eh?”

“Did Kyle go with you?”

“No. It was our regular one-Saturday-a-month dinner with Uncle Jerry and Aunt Beatrice and their horrid kids. Let's just say that Uncle Jerry and Kyle don't get on too well.” She sniffed. “Uncle Jerry was a recruiting sergeant in the Marines. He thinks Kyle should have a regular job, preferably a bout of
semper
fi
to sort him out. Uncle Jerry
doesn't understand that Kyle is
artistic
. A job would destroy all that artistic talent.”