Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen (11 page)

She lowered her voice. “Here in Muddle Harbor, you'll find us very . . . tolerant. I don't like to say, but I've heard some stories about Rudolph folk. Sometimes they're, well, not as accepting as modern folks should be.”

“Huh?” Vicky said.

“Huh?” I said. Then the light dawned. She thought Vicky and I were a couple. I smothered a laugh as I wiped up yellow yolk and red ketchup with the last of my toast.

A gust of cold air hit our backs as the door opened. “Great timing!” Janice called. “Here's someone you girls will want to meet. Randy, come on over here and give these ladies a big Muddle Harbor welcome.”

Randy Baumgartner hurried across the room, hand outstretched, patented politician's smile firmly in place. He grabbed my hand and pumped it. Then he did the same to Vicky's.

“Randy here's our mayor,” Janice said. “Randy, these ladies are looking for good vacation property. No need to look any further, is there? Hey, I've an idea. Why don't I call John right now? Tell him to drop everything and come on over and meet you.”

“Will you look at the time.” Vicky leapt off her stool. “Gotta run. We'll meet your brother another time. M . . . Martha, get the check, will you.”

I didn't know who Martha was or why she would be paying for our breakfast. Then it dawned on me. Vicky didn't want to say my name. I dug into my purse. My plate was nothing but a smear of ketchup, egg yolk, and toasted breadcrumbs. My tummy would protest later, but boy had that been good.

Randy Baumgartner was studying me. “I'm sure we've met before,” he said.

“Nope,” Vicky said. “She has one of those faces.” She rubbed at her head, and her hat slipped. A shock of purple hair escaped.

“Hey,” Randy said. “I know you, too. You were at the reception in Rudolph last Saturday.”

Janice gasped.

“You're the woman from the bakery!” He turned to Janice. “The one who poisoned that man.”

“Gotta run,” Vicky said. She grabbed my arm and headed for the door.

“The bakery in Rudolph is perfectly safe,” I called over my shoulder. I pulled to a halt beside the table with the two young mothers. “The whole town is perfectly safe. My shop sells handmade wooden toys. Nothing full of artificial chemicals or mass-produced. Friday's Midnight Madness. Come early and bring your kids. Santa will be there.”

I ran into the street.

A howling mob intent on stringing Vicky and me up from the nearest lamppost did not pursue us, but we ran as though it did. We leapt into the Mercury; Vicky gunned the engine and we squealed out of town.

“That was fun,” Vicky said once we had passed the Muddle Harbor town limits.

“Yeah, real fun. Aside from that, I don't know what we learned. It's no secret the Muddites aren't exactly enthusiastic boosters of Rudolph. Although the dig about not being the sort of place for our type was kinda a low blow.”

“They're using what happened to Nigel Pearce against us, Merry. You don't think we're the first people to wander into that 1953 relic of a café—and I still can't believe you ate that entire breakfast—and get a warning about not going to Rudolph. What else might she have said if we hadn't been discovered? Something about satanic rituals, I bet. They're going to play this to the hilt, Merry.”

“I have to admit you're right,” I said. “Which leads me to another conclusion.”

“And what might that be?”

“That maybe some people in Muddle Harbor aren't just taking advantage of our misfortune. Maybe they made it happen.”

Vicky turned her head and looked at me. “Are you saying they killed Nigel?”

A truck roared past us, horn blaring. “Oops,” Vicky said, pulling the Grand Marquis back into our lane. “Close one.”

I pried my fingers off the dashboard. “I'm saying
cui bono
.”

“And that means?”

“It's Latin, meaning ‘who benefits.' When any crime has been committed, the first thing to ask is who benefits. They always say that in English mystery novels.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge. Latin or not, you've got a heck of a good point, Merry. The Muddites do stand to benefit, and big-time. If they destroy the Christmas season in Rudolph, they'll get some of the overflow. Safe baking, my left foot.” She ripped off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair.

“That mayor, Randy Baumgartner, was at the reception,” I said. “That's why he recognized us today. Him and a couple of their town councilors.”

“So they had not only motive, but also the means and the opportunity,” Vicky said. “Isn't that also what they say in the mystery novels?”

We drove the rest of the way back to Rudolph in silence.

I
'd been gone less than two hours, but Mattie greeted me with as much enthusiasm as if I were returning from an expedition to the South Pole. I snapped on his leash and took him for a quick walk.

“You were off bright and early this morning,” Mrs. D'Angelo called as I rounded the front of the house.

“Went for breakfast with Vicky Casey,” I said.

“Such a nice girl, Vicky. Too bad about that hair. Is Matilda ill?”

“Matilda? Who's Matilda?”

“Matilda Alfenburg. Vicky's mother's aunt. I happened to be washing the dishes and looking out the kitchen window this morning and couldn't help but notice that Vicky was driving Matilda's car. Matilda loves that car. She never lets anyone borrow it.”

“Far as I know,” I called over my shoulder as Mattie dragged me away, “Great-aunt Matilda is in fighting form.”

When I'd first seen Mrs. D'Angleo's house, with an eye to renting one of the upstairs apartments, I'd been swept away by the beauty of the garden. It was a big lot with golf club–quality grass, neat and well-maintained English country garden perennial beds, walkways and porches overflowing with huge terra cotta planters of red and white geraniums and trailing vines. I soon came to realize that all that gardening was for the express purpose of allowing Mrs. D'Angelo to keep her eye on the street and everyone in it. Her activities were severely restricted in the winter, when all she could do was peek out the living room window or wash the windows on the front porch. She loved it when it snowed. Not because she particularly cared for snow, but because it gave her an excuse to be outside. Our front path was the most neatly shoveled on our street. Mrs. D'Angelo tried to get out the morning after a fall to clear off the sidewalk itself, but the town usually beat her to it.

A happy Mattie darted from one patch of yellow snow to another. He needed, Vicky had told me, to start getting used to different people. She thought I should bring him into the shop.

I thought she was nuts. A growing, hyperactive Saint Bernard puppy cavorting among the glass ornaments and festive dishes was a recipe for disaster.

Training, training, Vicky reminded me.

Work, work, I reminded her.

Perhaps when the Christmas rush was over, I'd start introducing him to the shop.

I took my dog home and got ready for work.

*   *   *

It was after ten when I got to the store, but no line of eager shoppers greeted me. Only Betty Thatcher, who'd probably been lying in wait.

“Nothing today,” she said, waving the morning's paper at me.

“That's good,” I said. I studied the set to her face as I unlocked the door. “Isn't it?”

“I fear the calm before the storm,” she replied.

I wondered what it was like to always be looking on the dark side of life. I went into my shop. Betty followed. I noticed her studying the glass balls that my dad had arranged the other day. She saw me looking, and glanced quickly away.

The door chimes sounded, and Russ Durham came in. “Morning, all.”

“No ad in the
Gazette
today?” I asked.

“If you mean from the Muddle Harbor Café, they only place an ad once a week,” Russ said. “Hopefully that was it. I was driving by, Merry, when I saw you opening up. Do you have time for a quick coffee?”

Betty harrumphed. “Shop owners don't take time for coffee breaks.”

Russ ignored her. I'd been about to turn down Russ's offer, seeing as how I'd been late opening up, but somehow I couldn't make myself appear to be agreeing with Betty. I opened my mouth to accept when coffee itself arrived.

“Good news!” Vicky announced from the open door. She clutched a couple of lattes in her mittened hands. I didn't need to see the hem of her baking apron peeking out from
the bottom of her coat to know she was back in business. The broad smile on her face was a sure giveaway.

“You've won the lottery?” I said, accepting the drink. I took off the lid and bent down to breathe in the scent of warm milky steam with a trace of vanilla.

“Even better. Detective Simmonds phoned me when I was returning Aunt Matilda's car, and told me I can open the bakery. I'm back in business.” She lifted her arms and twirled in a pirouette, not exactly graceful, as she was wearing snow boots and a heavy winter coat.

“That is good news,” Russ said.

“Did they catch the killer, do you think?” I asked.

“Simmonds didn't say. She admitted that evidence indicated the poison wasn't baked into the cookies, but added later. Any one of a number of people could have done it.”

“I'll drink to that,” I said, lifting my latte. We clinked cups.

“It's past ten o'clock now,” Vicky said. “Way too late to make bread, or do much baking at all, but I called my scheduled staff and told them we'll be open for lunch at noon. I've lots of frozen soup and my mom's gone on an emergency grocery run to get salad ingredients for me. I have some things in the freezer I can bake, so we'll be able to offer a limited range of desserts, also. Might as well make bread pudding with all the bread in the back of the shop that's going stale.”

“I'll be there precisely at noon for lunch,” I said. “Show the flag. I'll call Mom and ask her to join me. Jackie's off today, but I can close the store for half an hour.”

Vicky gave me a one-armed hug.

“The best thing you can do right now,” I said, “is go to
work. Get that bakery open and the ovens fired up. Start enticing people to come in. Anyone who's ever eaten at the Muddle Harbor Café knows how much better your place is.”

“Okay,” she said. “Traitor,” she muttered to Russ as she passed him. He had the grace to look apologetic.

“I understand why Vicky's mad at you,” I said, “even though we know you were only doing your job. But to make it up to us, you have to go to Vicky's for lunch.”

“Great. It's a date.”

“Not with me! Just go. You, too, Betty.”

“Why would I do that?” Betty said. “I always bring my lunch from home.”

“To support the town,” I said through gritted teeth.

She looked blank.

“To help spread the word that Rudolph is a good place to have lunch before shopping for Christmas trinkets?”

“Oh, right. I suppose I can do that.”

Betty left. Russ followed her, but instead of leaving, too, he flipped the sign on the door to “Closed.”

“What are you doing?” I said.

He gave me a slow, sexy grin. My stomach dropped to my toes.

“I thought we might enjoy a few private moments in what's probably going to be a very busy day.” Russ came close. He lifted his hand and ran the tip of his index finger down my nose. My heart joined my stomach. Green flakes danced in his eyes. His strong jaw moved. “Merry . . .”

I leapt backward. “Busy day, you're right. I'll be on the hop all day. I don't have an assistant today. I don't mean I'm going to be here all alone. Oh no. Customers will be pouring through the doors any minute now. Lots of customers.” I
glanced toward the door. No one was currently clambering to get in.

Russ's phone rang. He made no move to reach for it.

“You should answer that,” I said.

“It can wait.”

“It might be important. Like advertisers wanting to complain.”

He let out a puff of air. “You're probably right.” He pulled out his phone and checked the display. His smile faded into a grimace. “Sue-Anne, good morning. What can I do for you?”

Russ left the shop, and I turned the sign back to “Open.”

I then made a phone call of my own. “Rise and shine. I'm taking you to lunch.”

“What time is it?” my sleepy mother said.

“Ten past ten.”

She groaned.

“If you start getting ready now, you can be here by noon,” I said. “Lunch is on me.”

“Why?”

“I'll tell you later.” I hung up.

One customer came into the shop over the next two hours: a woman in her sixties, dressed in a lumpy winter coat, hand-knitted scarf, and practical boots. She picked up every item, turned it over, examined the price tag, grunted, and put it down again.

Then she left.

Precisely at noon my mom sailed through the door. My mom never walked into a room. She arrived everywhere as though she were stepping onto the stage at the Met on opening night. Today she wore a gorgeous double-breasted
pale pink wool coat with huge black buttons, a black hat and scarf, and black leather gloves. Deep gray slacks were worn over high-heeled leather boots. She presented her cheek for a kiss. I obliged and was enveloped in a wave of Chanel No. 5.

“Your father was disturbed, once again, at some ungodly hour,” she said to me. “He abandoned his breakfast and ran out the door. I didn't even get my tea!” Every morning, Dad carried a cup of tea, brewing in a pot of pink roses and nicely laid out on a silver tray, into the bedroom to wake Mom up. Mom put on airs and liked to pretend that she was still an adored diva, but she lived here, in Rudolph, New York, rather than in an apartment overlooking Central Park, because she loved my father.

They were a mismatched couple, all right, but they adored each other. I only hoped that I'd find a man to love as much some day. I thought I had once—and wasn't that a mistake. Russ Durham was handsome, charming, and clearly interested in me. But I was not going to allow myself to be rushed into anything. My scars were still too raw.

“Where are we lunching?” Mom asked.

“Vicky's been allowed to reopen. We need to support her and show everyone that we know she didn't serve any poisoned baking.”

Mom snorted. “Anyone with any sense knows that.”

“How was Dad yesterday?” I asked. “After he got back from heading to the airport.”

“Fit to be tied,” Mom said.

“You've no idea what happened?”

“A practical joke gone wrong, your father says. If I was still singing professionally and someone had done that to
us, I'd think it was an understudy trying to get me out of town for opening night. But here, in Rudolph?”

“It might have been a mistake,” I said. “A text sent to a wrong number?”

“Yes. Except the message did say ‘Eve here.'”

We'd probably never know. I went into the storage room to get my new coat and pull on my boots. When I came out, Mom was rearranging the window display.

“Mom! Stop that!”

“You need more toys in here,” she said. “Christmas is about children.” She pushed the jewelry display to the back and placed two of Alan's tall wooden soldiers front and center.

“You and Dad should open a decorating business,” I said.

“Why would we want to do that?” She added a third soldier and admired her handiwork. “Better symmetry.”

I flipped the sign, locked the shop, and Mom and I walked the short distance to the bakery. We passed one of the town clerks stapling a notice to the round column in front of the library that served as a bulletin board. It advertised Midnight Madness on Friday and Saturday. She gave Mom and me a nod of greeting.

I was pleased to see a steady stream of people going into Victoria's Bake Shoppe. They were almost all locals, here like Mom and I were to support one of our own. And, I might add, to have a delicious lunch.

The usual intoxicating scent of baking bread didn't greet us this afternoon, but glistening sugar-sprinkled pies and tarts and plump gingerbread cookies were cooling on
the shelves behind the counter and soup was bubbling in three black cauldrons.

“I'm sorry.” Jason, one of Vicky's nephews, was behind the counter, talking to the hungry patrons. “We aren't serving sandwiches today as the bread didn't get baked and Vicky never serves anything other than her own baking. We'll have full service tomorrow. But today we have soup and salads and a wide range of desserts.”

“You grab a table, and I'll get our lunch,” I said to my mom. “What kind of soup do you want?”

We studied the chalkboard. Butternut squash with apple, split pea and ham, and clear vegetable were on offer.

“Pea,” Mom said. She elbowed Rachel McIntosh from Candy Cane Sweets aside to get at a free table.

True to her word, Betty Thatcher had come. She was at the end of the line. I took my place behind her. She must have known I was there, but she stood ramrod straight, facing directly ahead. When it was her turn, she said, “I'll have . . . a cup of tea, please.”

“Is that all?” Jason asked.

“With milk.” She pulled out her wallet and began counting coins.

Oh, well. At least she was here.

I placed our orders and went to join Mom. I'd barely taken my seat when the door flew open with enough force to have the walls shaking, and Sue-Anne Morrow stormed in. She waved a newspaper in the air. “This is an outrage!”

People turned toward her. “We've all seen the ad, Sue-Anne,” Betty said.