Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen (3 page)

Nigel then went on to take more photos of Jackie: in front of the buffet, admiring the trophies, sitting innocently on Santa's knee. Kyle Lambert, Jackie's current boyfriend, glowered all the while.

But even Jackie had to give way to Mom and her school. I had no doubt that if—a big if—we were the cover story of the magazine, as Nigel had hinted, the photo of her, resplendent in her Broadway-worthy gown, surrounded by pink-cheeked, beribboned, turquoise and green elf–costumed kids, would be on it.

The main room of the center was fully decorated for Christmas, with a real tree with all the trimmings, rows of red stockings pinned to one wall, and colorful baubles hanging throughout. Santa held court for the kids in a big, comfortable wingback chair, listening to their wishes and posing for pictures. Alan, dressed in his toymaker getup, was acting as Santa's assistant, taking notes on a lengthy scroll of paper with a pen that had an elaborate feather stuck to one end. His Honor held court, or attempted to, with the adults, accepting praise for how well everything had gone.

Victoria's Bake Shoppe had catered the affair. Hot chocolate, with or without ginger tonic, huge slabs of gingerbread cake, and perfect gingerbread cookies cut in all sorts of interesting shapes. Fortunately, Vicky had forgone the anatomically correct boy and girl cookies that had been served at my last birthday party—to my considerable surprise.

People came from far and wide to Rudolph for parade weekend. I'd talked to people today from California, Quebec, and Wyoming. With the feature in
World Journey
, we might start getting tourists from Europe and Asia. Dollar signs danced in my head.

My skirt and tights had dried over the afternoon, but then I had to make another dash across the park to feed Mattie and let him out before coming to the party, and I
was soaked once again. I was beginning to lose contact with my toes.

I was thoroughly beat and wanted nothing more than to go home, put the fire on, pour a glass of wine, grab
Holmes for the Holidays
or
More Holmes for the Holidays,
which I read every year, and go to bed early. But I wouldn't be able to do that until December twenty-sixth. The store was closed, of course, on Christmas Day, but somehow I'd managed to get myself talked into hosting Christmas dinner in my tiny apartment.

I glanced around the crowded room. Russ had given me a wave when I came in, but had spent his time interviewing town dignitaries and taking pictures for the paper. Pretty much everyone who lived in the vicinity of Rudolph, New York, could be counted on to be here: business owners, the farmers and craftspeople who supplied our shops and kitchens, representatives of the service clubs, town employees. About the only people missing would be the restaurant staff. They'd be getting ready to serve dinner.

The politicians had come out in force, including two state representatives. Speaking of which, I spotted Sue-Anne Morrow glad-handing the crowd. (Glad-handing the locals anyway. She ignored the obvious tourists.) Sue-Anne hadn't declared her candidacy yet, but she made no secret of the fact that she would be challenging Fergus Cartwright for the mayoralty in the forthcoming elections. She was going to run on the slogan “Rudolph can do BETTER!” Our town was prospering, but the number of visitors had dropped off from the heights of a few years ago and sales were down. Nothing we could do about the recession that had stung the
entire state, but Sue-Anne wanted everyone to know it was all Fergus's fault.

Fergus had been mayor for seven years, and a lot of people—including me—thought he was getting a bit too comfortable with the job. He hadn't had a fresh idea in a long time. In fact, most of his ideas (when he had them) were handed to him by my dad, who'd decided not to run for another term. But I wasn't entirely sure I wanted Sue-Anne as mayor. I suspected she had a nasty streak that she kept well hidden under her sprayed helmet of gray-blond hair and pastel power suits that always matched her shoes. Today she wore a boxy pink suit with three-quarter-length sleeves and a skirt cut sharply at the knee. I doubted that the suit, or the pink and black ankle boots, had been bought at Jayne's Ladies Wear, Rudolph's premier women's fashion store. Sue-Anne's only concession to the season was a tiny brooch representing a decorated Christmas tree pinned on her collar. Maybe that was one of the reasons I didn't trust Sue-Anne. I didn't think she truly
loved
Christmas.

In Rudolph we lived and breathed Christmas all year long. You might think that would make us hard and cynical when the time arrived, but somehow it made me love the real thing all the more. And I knew the majority of my fellow townspeople felt the same.

I glanced around the room. Most of the women, locals as well as tourists, not in some sort of costume had accented their outfits with the worst (meaning the best!) of Christmas jewelry. Gaudy flashing-light necklaces that the Nook sold for two dollars (five bucks for three), earrings of wreaths or trees, giant brooches. More than a few men were in the sort of homemade Christmas sweaters fashion magazines
ridiculed. I spotted Betty Thatcher slithering along behind Nigel Pearce, trying to worm her way into every conversation he attempted to have or every picture he tried to take. I watched as Nigel snapped pictures of three attractive teenage singers when it was their turn on stage, and decided that Betty, fifty years old, totally without curves, and dressed in her usual frumpy style, didn't have a chance. I almost felt sorry for her, and then she caught me watching and gave me a look of such disdain, my sympathy dissolved.

“You're a thousand miles away,” a voice said at my side; Alan Anderson with two glasses of steaming hot chocolate. He passed me one. A single giant marshmallow, homemade at Candy Cane Sweets, floated on the surface.

“Thanks. I might have been at the North Pole. I was thinking that I love Christmas.”

He laughed. It made a strange sound: the notes of a young man, the appearance of one about a hundred years old. No doubt I presented a similar paradox.

All part of that Christmas magic.
I grinned at him and took a sip of hot chocolate. Thick and rich. The toymaker gave me a warm smile. The young blue eyes sparked from beneath his spectacles and under bushy gray eyebrows. I took another sip as I wiggled my toes, trying to get some circulation back into them. My sodden skirt weighed about a ton and my lower appendages felt as though ice might be forming on them. The room was freezing, with the door constantly opening, and most people were dressed in heavy winter clothes and parade-suitable costumes.

“Having a break?” I asked.

“Yup. Even Santa has to answer the call of nature.”

My dad had returned from the restroom and was in a
little conclave with Nigel Pearce, Russ Durham, Ralph Dickerson, Fergus Cartwright, and my mom. Mom was drinking water, and the men were munching on gingerbread. Sue-Anne Morrow danced at the edges of the group, trying to squeeze herself in while Mom tried to block her. Betty had disappeared.

Alan and I stood in comfortable silence, watching. Alan was a man of few words. His wooden toys—as much art as things for kids to play with—spoke for him.

Soon Dad broke away from the group and went back to his duties. Mom turned to exchange a word with him, and Sue-Anne saw her chance. She darted forward and thrust her hand toward Nigel.

“I'd better get back to it,” Alan said. “Do you . . . uh . . . think, Merry, when all this is over that . . .”

“Nice party.” The couple who'd been first into my shop today came up to us. Alan nodded to them and slipped away. I gave them a smile, and not only because they'd dropped five hundred bucks on jewelry and Christmas ornaments.

“We've already made a reservation at the inn for next year,” the woman said. “We've finally found a way to entertain my parents on their annual visit. They've retired to Hawaii and love it, but Mom still pines for the old-fashioned Christmases of her youth.”

“That's the spirit of Rudolph,” I said, feeling my smile widening. Old-fashioned Christmases were my bread and butter.

Night had arrived before five o'clock and snow still drifted lazily out of the dark sky. The room was bathed in a soft blue and green light from the tree and decorations. Soon nothing was left of the food but a few armless and
headless gingerpeople and a pile of crumbs. And not many of those. We deliberately didn't provide
too
much food; we wanted our visitors to go to one of the town's many restaurants after the party. People chatted and laughed in small groups, still enjoying their hot chocolate and the last of the cookies, reluctant to head out into the night. The youngest children were being folded into their snowsuits to be taken home and put to bed after an exciting day.

Christmas. I might spend the entire month of December in an overworked panic, but I still love it as much as I did when I was a small kid. And in our house, Christmas had been pretty special. After all, my dad was Santa Claus.

The nicest thing about the Christmas spirit, I always thought, was that it was infectious. Everyone was made happy simply by being near it.

Well, almost everyone. Three people standing by the buffet table did not look as though they were about to burst into a spontaneous round of carols. I knew them all. Two were store owners from the next town, Muddle Harbor. The third was the mayor of that unfortunately named town, Randy Baumgartner.

Over the years, as the reputation of Rudolph as
the
place for Christmas activities and shopping grew, the town of Muddle Harbor fell into decline. It wasn't entirely our fault—the town's main industry had closed and the shipyard along with it—but Muddle Harbor folks were convinced that Rudolph was stealing all the visitors that would otherwise be pouring into their town, loaded with cash to spend.

In fact, they did pretty well out of our overflow. When the B&Bs and inns in Rudolph were full, we directed people to Muddle Harbor and that brought customers to their shops
and restaurants. Five years ago they'd tried to set themselves up as “Easter Town” with a parade and festival in the spring. That had ended when the former mayor had run through town in an Easter Bunny outfit with a vital part of his costume missing, pursued by the three-hundred-pound trucker-father of the nineteen-year-old Queen of the Easter Parade, titled the “Chocolette.” Right now, Randy Baumgartner and his companions were glaring at the group around Nigel Pearce.

George lumbered up to me, a slab of gingerbread clenched in his paw.

“I hope you're able to get the tractor fixed,” I said.

“Already done.”

“Not too expensive, then?”

“Have to tell you, Merry. It wasn't no mechanical problem.”

“What then?” Not that I particularly wanted to hear. I am interested in a lot of things in this world, but the intricacies of a tractor's innards are not among them.

“Spark plug wires switched.”

“Oh. How'd you get it into town, then?” I saw Vicky come out of the kitchen with a fresh platter of cookies. I'd been mad at her long enough. Time to go and help. Give her a chance to invite Nigel Pearce to her bakery.

“Merry,” George said. The tone of his voice was so serious I turned back to him.

“What?”

“I drove the tractor into town last night, right?”

“Yes.”

“Between then and this morning when the parade started,
the wires got switched. The wires start in order. If they ain't in the right order, the engine don't start.”

“Why would that happen?”

“It didn't do it by itself, Merry.”

“But you fixed it, right?”

“Easy enough once everyone and their dog weren't yellin' at me to start the blasted tractor, and I had a chance to check 'er over.”

“George, are you saying . . . ?”

“That the tractor everyone knew would be pullin' your float was sabotaged. Yeah, Merry, I guess that's what I'm sayin'. Hum, I better get another one o' those cookies afore they're all gone.” He touched the rim of his ball cap in his polite old-fashioned way and sauntered
off.

G
obsmacked, I stared at George's departing figure. The way George had described it, it certainly sounded as though the inability of his tractor to start this morning hadn't been an accident. The floats and the vehicles to pull them had been assembled yesterday evening and left in the community center parking lot all night. No one in Rudolph had ever even considered we should put a guard on the floats.

Who would do something like that?

And to me!

I watched Vicky exchange a word with one of her helpers. Vicky was the only one who benefited from the disabling of my float.

No, not Vicky.

I hurried across the room to give her a hand. I was beat, but my best friend had also been on her feet all day, and she still had dishes to pack up, the kitchen to clean, and then
needed to have the shelves in her bakery fully stocked and ready to open at seven tomorrow morning.

I grabbed an empty tray out of her hands. “You better take a minute and talk to that guy over there. He's a big-time travel reporter.”

She pushed the single long lock of purple hair out of her eyes. The rest of her hair was cropped short. “I've been told. He was in the bakery at lunchtime. Had ham and Swiss on a baguette and potato soup. Even took a few pictures before he left. Don't worry, I'm about to wow him with my special cookies.”

“That's good, then,” I said, meaning the sandwiches as well as the cookies. Vicky's baguettes were exceptional, even better than ones I'd had in Paris: soft on the inside, crusty on the outside, served with thickly spread butter from a local farm. Yummy! More than a few pounds on my hips owed their existence to that bread. I pulled my head back from dreams of warm baking. “Still, you should take a break, freshen up. I can help with the dishes.”

We walked together into the large industrial kitchen. Vicky's helpers were washing the serving dishes and tossing unfinished food and crumpled napkins—featuring Santa's sleigh and his nine reindeer crossing a night sky thick with stars—into the trash.

“I'm sorry about what happened to your float, Merry. Really I am. I was sure it was going to win. Although I can't say I'm not entirely surprised that tractor of George's finally went on strike.”

I'd decided not to tell anyone about the suspected sabotage. For now anyway. George was mighty handy with an engine, but even he could make a mistake.

I put the trays on the long table in the center of the room. One platter of untouched treats remained. “These look pretty special.”

Vicky made plain cookies, just good gingerbread cut into fun shapes. The only decorations were on the reindeer, who were given tiny red candies for noses. She didn't believe in elaborate icing on cookies. Too much work, she said, and it detracted from the pure flavor of the cookie.

But these cookies were works of art. Edible art. The Santa suits had been painted in bright red icing, with a strip of licorice for the belt, chocolate ganache boots, and a white icing beard. The brightly costumed people had pink icing smiles and black licorice-piece eyes, and the sleigh was piled high with candy gifts. The cookies rested on a bed of coconut arranged to look like snow. The biggest and most beautiful cookie was painted with a thick layer of white icing, topped with colored icing to show a bespectacled man wearing a frock coat and a tall hat, carrying a book. I leaned over and peered closely in order to read the delicate writing painted onto the book.
A Christmas Carol.

“It's Charles Dickens!”

“I decided to do something over the top for our special guest,” Vicky said. “I hope he likes it. It was a heck of a lot of work. You're just in time. I'm about to present it. I asked your mom to make sure Mr. Pearce stayed until the end.”

She hefted the tray and handed it to me. “You take it.”

“I can't! You deserve the credit.”

“I'll get the credit, you can be sure of that. But you're dressed for the part, Mrs. Claus. Come on, let's go.”

Her helpers stopped working to watch. The door was
held open for me, and I proudly carried the tray of cookies into the room.

“What have we got here?” Dad boomed. “Ho, ho, ho!”

Mom launched into the “champagne” song from
Die Fledermaus
.

“For our distinguished guest,” Vicky said as everyone gathered around. Most of the tourists had left after checking their watches and muttering about reservations or getting children to bed. It was now time for the town to congratulate itself on a job well done, to pat itself on the back, and to relax . . . for about five minutes. Then we headed back to work to get ready for another busy day that was Christmas Town in December. The only outsiders remaining were Nigel Pearce and the people from Muddle Harbor. (The Muddites, we called them. They called us those blasted deer people.) Nigel snapped a photo of the gingerbread cookie display. Then he took another shot of a beaming Vicky beside the tray. Vicky indicated that she wanted me in the picture, but Nigel called for Jackie. Giggling and protesting that she had nothing to do with it, all the while shoving people aside, she snatched up a Santa and pretended to take a big bite. Her boyfriend, Kyle, hadn't dropped his scowl all evening. He clearly wasn't about to start now.

Russ, who regularly did triple duty as photographer and the paper's lead reporter as well as editor in chief, snapped a picture of me with an expression on my face that would frighten small children.

“For our English visitor,” Vicky said once the cameras had stopped clicking. “I created a cookie in honor of his countryman who popularized many of the Christmas traditions
we enjoy today.” She smiled at Nigel and made a sweeping gesture toward the treats.

We all applauded and Nigel Pearce, looking quite pleased with himself, stepped forward. He picked up the elaborate Dickens cookie and bit the head off in one big bite. We applauded again.

The mayor cleared his throat prior to making a speech, but he was pushed aside by the rush on the food.

Once the tray had been vacuumed clean, everyone drifted off into the night. Mom declared that she was absolutely
exhausted,
and Dad gave her a fond smile. The Muddites went away mumbling, although I noticed that their mayor managed to snatch a couple of extra cookies and stuff them into his pocket. Nigel Pearce drew Jackie to one side and, peering down the front of her sweater all the while, whispered in her ear. Kyle had gone to get her coat. Russ snapped one last shot of me at the moment I took a bite of the cookie I'd been able to snatch out from under the grasping hands of Sue-Anne. She gave me a look that would curdle Santa's milk before forcing her face into a smile and turning to Russ.

“Why don't you walk me to my car, Russell, sweetie? It's getting so slippery out there, and these boots aren't suitable for ice. I need a man's strong arm.”

Vicky wiggled her eyebrows at me, and I stifled a laugh. The sidewalks had been scraped so thoroughly they'd probably lost a quarter inch of pavement, and enough salt and sand had been laid in the parking lot to equip a California beach. The last thing the town of Rudolph wanted was for one of those tourists to slip and break a leg.

But Russ was young and attractive and exceedingly
charming, and Sue-Anne's husband was rarely seen around town. Probably more to the point, however, Russ represented the town's newspaper.

Vicky sent her helpers home, and I gave her a hand with the last of the cleaning.

“The whole day went well,” she said, packing dishes into the plastic tubs she used for transporting supplies.

“Other than me being disqualified from the parade, you mean?”

A smile touched the corner of her mouth. “Other than that. Come on, I'll give you a ride home.”

We were the last people to leave the community center. Vicky switched off the lights and I made sure the door had locked behind us.

“You're not being fair!”

“Look, Jackie, I . . .”

The voices broke off. Jackie and Kyle were standing against the wall by the back door, in deep shadows where the lights from the parking lot didn't reach. He had his hand on her arm, and his face was set into deep lines beneath narrowed black eyes. Jackie shook him off. “Night, Merry,” she called.

Kyle stepped away from her. Embarrassed, he dug grooves in the snow with the toe of his boot.

“Are you okay there?” I asked, cradling one of Vicky's plastic tubs.

“We're fine. Kyle doesn't seem to understand about taking opportunities and making a grab for the brass ring.” Jackie walked into the light. Kyle wasn't the brightest star on the Rudolph Christmas tree, but I'd always thought he
was a nice guy. Too nice, maybe, for Jackie. Despite her earlier complaint that he'd dump her if he saw her elf getup, we both knew that wouldn't happen. Jackie went through boyfriends at a rate that was beyond my ability to keep track. And when she tired of them, she liked to be the one who did the dumping.

“I understand,” he said, “about dirty old men trying to look important.”

She laughed. “Isn't he sweet when he's jealous, Merry? Take me home, Kyle. I'm tired.” She walked away, head high. Kyle threw me a look and then ran after her.

Vicky and I left them to sort out their problems.

At home, Mattie greeted me with his usual boundless enthusiasm. After I'd wiped away enough drool to fill a horse trough, I told him I'd be back in a minute and ran into my bedroom to change. I needed a bath, a long hot soak with lavender bubbles, to force some life back into my legs and feet, but Mattie needed a walk after spending a boring day alone in his crate. Off came the damp tights and the Mrs. Claus outfit and on went a pair of beloved old jeans and a tattered, but warm, sweater. I ran my hands through my own black curls, happy to have the cap off. Downstairs, Mattie danced around my feet in excitement, but I eventually managed to get the squiggling beast out of the way long enough to pull on my heavy winter boots and down-filled coat, wrap a long scarf around my neck, and pull a highly unattractive but functional hat with earflaps onto my head.

Last of all, I snapped the leash onto Mattie's collar and we set off. I opened the gate, stepped onto the path, and my arm was almost detached from the socket. I might have enjoyed
a pleasant stroll but walking Mattie was more of a mad gallop, abruptly interrupted by bone-shaking halts, as the dog found something interesting to sniff at and then charged off in search of the next fascinating object. This was a neighborhood of stately Victorian mansions, built in Rudolph's heyday when it had been one of the most significant ports on the Great Lakes. Some homes were now in a state of gentle decay, many had been broken into apartments, but almost all of the houses were beautifully decorated. Grinches don't live in Rudolph for long. Majestic trees glittered in front windows, lights were draped across porch frames and pillars or wound between tree branches. The bandstand was trimmed in hundreds of tiny white lights, and a white spotlight shone on the town's official Christmas tree. Thick clouds continued to spill snow, and no light came from moon or stars to guide my way. The lake was a solid black void in the distance.

As we reached the park, Mattie veered off to the right, going deeper into the darkness, pulling so sharply on the leash, I staggered. My feet slid out from under me on a patch of hidden ice. My hands flew out as I tried to keep upright, releasing the leash. The dog bounded away. I fell, hard, into the deep, soft snow. For a moment I lay where I'd fallen, facedown, head buzzing. I blinked, shook my head, and struggled to roll over. I did a quick mental check. I wiggled my toes and my fingers. Everything seemed to be in place and working. My right wrist had broken my fall. It hurt like the blazes, but I could still move it, so I didn't think anything was broken.

With a curse and a groan, slipping and sliding on the
hidden ice, I pushed myself to my knees and then staggered to my feet. I blew snow off my face and wiped down my arms. I couldn't see Mattie but I could hear him barking in the dark, toward the rocky shore of the lake.

“Mattie! Matterhorn! Get over here!”

No reply. I couldn't see anything, but I stumbled through the deep snow, following the sound of barking. I want to be a responsible dog owner, so I always carry a flashlight and a pocketful of plastic bags on our nightly excursions. I pulled the flashlight out of my pocket and switched it on. I played the light over the expanse, seeing nothing but snow. A few more steps and there he was: a swiftly moving brown and while tail and furry butt.

“Mattie,” I said, sounding very stern. “Come here, right now!”

He turned his head and looked at me. The light caught his brown eyes. But he didn't come at my command and turned back to whatever had grabbed his attention. It appeared to be a black plastic garbage bag.

My blood boiled. Some irresponsible citizen had chucked their garbage into the park.

The dog stopped barking and settled into a low whine. He stood over the bag, looking back at me. Urging me to come closer.