Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen (12 page)

“This,” she said, “is no ad. It's today's
Muddle Harbor
Chronicle
. I knew they'd be up to no good, so I drove over there this morning to check things out.” The Muddites must have thought they were being invaded. “I tried contacting our so-called mayor,” Sue-Anne continued, “but was told he wasn't in the office. He's taking a
personal
day. As if a public servant can take a day off willy-nilly.”

“Spare us the campaign ad, Sue-Anne,” my mother said. “And just tell us what has your knickers in such a knot.”

One of the waitresses laughed. Sue-Anne threw her a look that might have turned the ice cream on the apple pie she was carrying sour.

Vicky came out of the back, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. She saw Mom and me and gave us a small wave.

With an eye to the theatrical that would do my mother proud (and had my mother muttering, “Get on with it”) Sue-Anne put a pair of reading glasses on her nose. She fluffed the newspaper. “The headline in today's
Muddle Harbor Chronicle
reads, ‘Death Stalks Rudolph.'”

“What!” People leapt to their feet. Everyone began speaking at once. Rachel dropped her fork.

“Quiet!” my mother sang. “Please allow Sue-Anne to continue.”

“‘A brutal death has struck at the heart of the neighboring town of Rudolph, New York,'” Sue-Anne read. “‘Visiting tourist Nigel Pearce died following Rudolph's annual gingerbread reception, an event popular with out-of-town Christmas shoppers. The autopsy indicated that illegal drugs had been added to the food he consumed at the party.'”

A groan spread through the room. The waitstaff stood frozen, full plates or dirty dishes clutched in their hands.

“We're finished,” Betty Thatcher said.

Sue-Anne continued reading. “‘Randy Baumgartner, mayor of Muddle Harbor, said in a statement: Our hearts go out to our friends and neighbors in Rudolph in the face of their tragedy, but let me assure the good people of the great state of New York that Muddle Harbor is open for business. Our restaurants and hotels are clean, and our excellent shops are open for your Christmas shopping needs.'”

This time even Mom couldn't quiet the crowd.

People rushed for the exit. Some didn't even bother to finish their lunch. I might have heard someone murmur something about “stringing that so-and-so Baumgartner up by his own lamppost.”

Vicky dropped into a spare chair at our table. “That's bad,” she said.

“Yup.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies. At least they didn't mention that I'd provided the so-called poisoned cookie.”

“Of course they didn't,” Mom said. “They want to spread the blame around. Imply that nowhere in Rudolph is safe.” She put down her spoon. “As much as I was looking forward to a slice of that pecan pie, I'd better be getting home. I assume this is why your father left in such a rush this morning. I'll have to get his heart medication out of the drawer before he sees that paper.”

“Dad's on heart medication? Why didn't I know about this?”

“I am speaking facetiously.” She stood up and pulled on her leather gloves.

“If you're talking to Noel,” Sue-Anne said, “ask him where the heck our mayor is, and when his office will be
issuing a response to this slander. I think threat of a law suit is in order.” Sue-Anne gripped her newspaper and left the bakery.

“You don't think people are going to believe that, do you, Merry?” Rachel asked me. “I sell candy, for heaven's sake. If people think our food isn't safe . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Out-of-towners aren't likely to read the
Muddle Harbor Chronicle
,” I said. “Sue-Anne had to drive over there to get a copy.”

“Let's hope the bigger news outlets don't pick it up,” Vicky said.

I
t must have been a slow news day in the wider world.

The
Muddle Harbor Chronicle
's report made the
New York Times
web page. CNN and Fox News then picked it up.
World Journey
magazine issued a statement mourning the loss of one of their “most renowned” travel writers and mentioning the location of his demise, Rudolph, New York, several times.

Vicky popped by after the bakery closed at three. She was smiling broadly and carried a bag bulging with leftovers. She dropped the bag on the counter.

“What's this?” I said.

“Your dinner for tonight. Because I was shut down so abruptly, I was stuck with loaves of bread going stale, so I made a ton of bread pudding. I sold almost all of it today, but held some back, knowing how much you like it. There are also a couple of loaves of baguette that will be fine for
crostini if you toast it. Some tomatoes if you want to make bruschetta, and a jar of the butternut squash soup.”

“That's nice of you, but I don't want to eat into your profits.”

“Tomorrow, I'll be back in full business. I'll be making bread and croissants and scones and all sorts of yummy things. That's what brings people into the bakery. It was super nice of so many people to come out for lunch today, and I bet you had something to do with it. So here's my thanks.”

“No one has to be encouraged to eat your food, Vicky.”

She glanced around my empty shop. “People are not happy, Merry. They're worried that this killing is going to drive tourists away. I'm worried.”

“It'll blow over,” I said, not convincing even myself.

Even for a Wednesday afternoon, business in my shop was slow. Ominously slow. After Vicky left, I brought my iPad to the counter to read while waiting for people to come in. By the time I (gratefully) closed at six, a Google search of Rudolph, New York, was bringing up hits on major news outlets all over the country, pushing our tourist promotion farther and farther down the page.

My dad came in as I was preparing to lock up. “It's bad, Merry,” he said, shaking his head.

“What's happening?”

“I've been getting calls all day. People are cancelling reservations. The Yuletide Inn was fully booked for the weekend and now they're a quarter empty. A Touch of Holly's lost a table of twelve for Friday night, along with some smaller parties.”

“Surely this will all blow over,” I said. “People have short memories. They'll forget.”

“That might be the case by next year, but there's only three weeks left until Christmas this year.”

I locked up and we walked out onto the sidewalk together. The town reminded me of one of those postapocalyptic movies. Everyone had disappeared; all that remained was their stuff.

Maybe not everyone: a big old pickup truck, held together more by rust than anything else, drove slowly down the street. George lifted one finger forty-five degrees in salute. Dad touched his hat in reply.

George and his truck.

I had totally forgotten.

“The parade! Do you remember, Dad? George's tractor was supposed to pull my float, but he couldn't get it started.”

“Caused a minor hiccup, but no harm done,” Dad said. “You managed to catch up to the parade.”

“No harm except for being disqualified from the trophy,” I said, “but never mind that. I didn't tell you, but when George had time to have a look at the tractor, he found it had been sabotaged.”

“Sabotaged? What does that mean?”

“I don't remember exactly what he said. Something about the wires being switched. I didn't give it another thought. I assumed George got things mixed up.”

“If George said the wires were switched, then the wires were switched. And you can be sure he didn't do it himself.” My dad stroked his beard. “That is interesting.”

“Thing is,” I said, “I didn't give it much thought because
no one would have a reason to disable my float. I can't say everyone in town likes me.” I thought of Betty Thatcher and Candice Campbell. “But no one, I hope, dislikes me enough to go to that much trouble to get back at me. And to do it in such a sneaky way. Making one float look bad did have the potential to throw the whole parade out of whack. Suppose Santa's float hadn't been able to get by.” My voice trailed off. “Pretty minor stuff, I know.”

“Perhaps not,” Dad said. “The person who did it might not have been entirely sure of what they were doing, or they were interrupted and weren't able to finish. Suppose the tractor was supposed to start but then get out of control. A crowded street. Floats, marching bands, sidewalks full of excited children. Even if it was just an attempt to disrupt the parade, it wasn't any practical joke. So I have to wonder: Might whoever was responsible have gone on to do something else? Something more serious?”

I finished his thought. “You mean like poisoning a guest of the town at the town's biggest social event of the season.”

“Yes, I do mean that,” my father said. “Right now I need to talk to the mayor and he seems to have made himself unavailable. He has to make a strong public statement about this. Usually Fergus can be counted on to do the exact opposite of anything I suggest, but this time, I'm going to make him listen to me. I'm going around to his house. If he's hiding in the basement, I'm going to drag him out. In the meantime, I have a job for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Go to the
Gazette
. Talk to Russ Durham. He must have contacts in the media in New York. Ask him to work them.”

“Why me?”

“Why not you?” Dad said.

“No reason.”

We went our separate ways. It was a sign of how concerned Dad was that he hadn't even tried to rearrange so much as a stack of Christmas-themed stationery in my shop.

I decided to go home and get Mattie before barging into the offices of the newspaper. I could phone Russ just as easily, but Mattie needed out, and it was time he started to get accustomed to meeting people and venturing into new places.

Besides, if I was going to have Russ Durham staring into my eyes and looking so deliciously sexy, I needed a thirty-pound puppy to distract me.

My plan came to naught, as the offices of the
Gazette
were closed tight when we arrived. I decided it didn't really matter. What could Russ do anyway? Ask reporters not to report on a scandalous story? To pretend a death—a murder—hadn't happened? But my dad had asked me to speak to him, so I'd give Russ a call when we got home.

Mattie had greatly enjoyed the walk. All the wonderful new smells and sights.

I hadn't.

A cold wind was blowing directly off the lake, coming down from Canada, bringing with it more snow; not the light, fluffy sort that gave me such delight, but hard, icy pellets that stung my cheeks and brought tears to my eyes and pierced every bit of exposed flesh.

It was probably my imagination, but as we trudged back home it seemed to me as though the spark had gone out of Rudolph. The lights in the shop windows seemed to have
dimmed, the wreaths hanging from lampposts looked limp, the snow underfoot was dirty and treacherous. People hurried by, huddled in their coats, not making eye contact.

What was Rudolph without the magic of Christmas? Just a small, decaying, postindustrial town long past its glory days.

“Merry!”

I turned at a shout. Alan Anderson was running down the sidewalk. Mattie wagged his tail in greeting.

“You look like you're a thousand miles away,” Alan said when he reached us.

“Sorry.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Of course something's the matter! Christmas is ruined! You must have heard the news. People are cancelling reservations all over the place. And it's almost Midnight Madness weekend. We're doomed.”

Even Mattie caught the pain in my voice. He whined.

“I don't think Christmas is ruined,” Alan said in his usual slow, thoughtful manner. “Christmas is about more than selling things, Merry.”

I took a deep breath. “You're right. But we do have to keep our businesses going.”

“We'll continue to do that. The twenty-four-hour news cycle will move on to another story tomorrow.”

Unless,
I thought, but didn't say
, something else happens in Rudolph to keep us in the news.

“What brings you to town?” I asked. I'd been to Alan's house to pick up things for the shop. He lived about ten miles out of town in a charming old farmhouse nested deep
in the woods. A separate building on the property served as his workshop.

“Grocery shopping.”

Mattie soon got bored of our conversation and began tugging on the leash.

“Have you . . . uh . . . had your dinner yet?” Alan said. We were passing The Elves' Lunch Box. The “Open” sign flickered halfheartedly in the window. The place was empty except for the bored waitress wiping down the counter. Several of the tiny colored lights on the string draped across the restaurant roof had gone out. A gust of icy wind whipped down the street, and the sandwich board advertising the day's specials shuddered and fell to the ground with a crash.

Alan bent over and picked it up. Most of the chalk writing had faded.

“I haven't eaten,” I said. “But I have to take Mattie home and feed him. Why don't you come with us? I just happen, for once, to have the makings of a quick but delicious dinner at my place. I might even have a bottle of wine in the fridge.”

He gave me a smile. “I'd like that.”

I smiled back.

Knowing that dinner would be on offer once we got home, Mattie picked up his pace and dragged me down the street. Alan and I followed in companionable silence. He was a big guy, but he moved as softly as the elf he sometimes pretended to be.

If I'd known I'd be entertaining, I'd have cleaned up the place.

“Sorry about the mess,” I said, hastily picking up discarded magazines, a single white sock, and a cup half-full
of cold coffee. Mattie grabbed his favorite blue and red ball and dropped it at Alan's feet.

“No ball throwing in the house,” I said, trying to sound stern. The living area looked like the inside of a playpen. I'd hung an assortment of rubber balls and chew toys on bungee cords from the ceiling, and more balls, ripped and torn stuffed toys, and shredded blankets covered the floor. Vicky had told me that play was as important to a growing puppy as to a young child.

Alan picked up a much loved (and much chewed) stuffed reindeer I'd brought home from the shop. Mattie lunged for it, and they began a tug-of-war while I went into the kitchen.

“White wine?” I called out.

“That would be great, thanks.”

I opened the wine first and then got out Mattie's dinner. He bounded into the kitchen and wolfed his food down, scarcely stopping for breath between bites.

“That's a great dog,” Alan said, leaning against the kitchen door. “Good teeth.” He held a brown reindeer ear in one hand.

“He sure is. I hope he stops growing soon though,” I said, thinking of grocery bills.

Alan tossed the ear into the trash. “Not a chance.”

I got down two wineglasses and poured the wine and then handed Alan a knife. He chopped tomatoes for the bruschetta while I heated Vicky's soup and sliced the baguette.

Mattie dozed under the kitchen table while Alan and I drank wine, ate, and talked.

“Sue-Anne was on the warpath earlier,” I said, munching on a piece of bruschetta. The tomatoes weren't at their best, this being December in New York, after all, but I'd used
good quality olive oil and plenty of fresh basil snipped off the plant growing in the sunny kitchen window, and the toasted bread was dense and full of flavor. “And the object of her wrath was the mayor. My dad said Fergus wasn't answering his phone.”

“He's hiding out at home,” Alan said. “His car was there when I drove into town.”

“Does he live near you?”

“Next property over. We're as close to neighbors as you can get out where I am. It's about a five-minute walk through the woods to the back of Fergus's place.”

“Do you think he's a good mayor?”

Alan sipped at his wine. His big hands were rough and scarred. The hands of a man who made his living with wood and tools. “Not a bad one,” he said at last. “Although it's no big secret that he sometimes makes the wrong decisions only because he's trying to one-up your father.”

My dad had been mayor for a long time. A very popular one. People kept asking him to run again, and he always told them he had no interest in the job anymore. I knew he meant it. “But Sue-Anne's right,” Alan continued, “much as I hate to admit it. Fergus should be out there supporting the town. The mayor needs to be the visible face of what a nice, friendly place Rudolph is.”

“You don't like Sue-Anne?”

“I don't like her ambition. It sits on her like a parrot on her shoulder. She wants to be mayor awful bad. So bad it's embarrassing sometimes.”