Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen (19 page)

W
hen I got to the store, the first thing I noticed was that the Douglas fir was looking sad and bare. Other than the strands of lights, everything on the tree was for sale, and yesterday it had been thoroughly picked over. I went into the back and found another box of ornaments made by a local glass artist. I unwrapped the beautiful balls and hung them, one by one, on the tree, keeping my eye on the door for potential shoppers as I worked. No matter how many times I decorated this tree, I always enjoyed it. I turned a ball in my hand, letting beams of green and red light from deep within flash around the shop. Some of the balls were the size of my thumbnail, works of miniature art, and some were bigger than a baseball. All were stunning. As well as the glass, I hung whimsical reindeer made of wooden clothespins and bits of red felt, and strung ropes of cranberry-red wooden beads. I'd put on one of my all-time
favorite CDs, Boney M.'s
Christmas Album
, and bobbed to the lively music as I worked.

The bell over the door tinkled and I turned to see my dad come in.

“Someone's in a good mood,” he said.

“Christmas always puts me in a good mood,” I said.

He kissed me on the top of my head. “That's why we called you Merry.”

I laughed and gave him a hug. My mother had wanted to name me Gundula, after Gundula Janowitz, the legendary soprano who was her idol as well as a good friend. Fortunately, Dad had won.

“Are you worried about tonight?” I asked.

“I'll be on high alert, and I'd advise you to do the same. Right now, I'm going home. This old Santa isn't as young as he used to be, and I need a nap.”

Dad left, and I went back to arranging the stock. The supply of wooden toys was getting low. I sent a quick text to Alan.

Me:
Need more trains for next week. Got any?

Alan:
Working on them now. Helping Santa tonight.

Me:
Can I come around and pick them up?

Alan:
Paint has to dry. Tomorrow after six. Stay for supper?

I hesitated. Then my fingers moved without conscious thought.

Me:
If I can bring Mattie.

Alan:
Sure.

“Morning, Merry,” Jackie called. “Looks like it's getting busy out there already.”

“Busy is good,” I said. Jackie would be working the day
shift today, ten until seven. At three, Crystal would come in to help me until eleven. I'd staff the store myself for the last hour.

The bell tinkled again, a group of laughing women came in, and I went to work with a smile.

The day passed without incident. To our considerable relief
#horrorville
was picked up by horror fans who thought it was a new book or movie, and they began using it without reference to Rudolph, leaving the town in the clear.

Mom and her group were warming their voices up, my dad and Alan were doing their rounds, the police were closing off Jingle Bell Lane, and the stage was being readied for the early-evening children's performers when I decided I could get away to tend to Mattie and maybe grab something to eat while both Crystal and Jackie were in the store. Business had been satisfyingly steady all day. Crystal sold the last of the wooden train sets and slipped up to me when her happy customers left, laden with parcels.

“Are we getting any more of those trains in?” she asked me. “They're really popular this year.”

“Alan's working on them, and I'll have some for next week.”

“It's nice of him to give his time to do the toymaker-and-Santa thing,” she said.

“It is.”

“That's why I love this town so much,” she said. “It really is Christmas Town, in more ways than one. I'm sure going to miss it when I'm away at college.”

“And we're going to miss you. Not to mention your jewelry. We sold quite a few of your pieces over the last few days.”

She smiled modestly. Then she glanced around the shop. No one was in earshot, but Crystal lowered her voice and stepped closer to me. “My mom says someone's deliberately trying to ruin Rudolph.”

“Accidents happen,” I said. I seemed to have been saying that a lot lately.

“Wasn't an accident what happened to Mr. Pearce, was it?”

“No. But the police suspect he brought his enemy with him.”

“That doesn't help us much. You know my mom runs a B and B? She had a cancellation last week and then another yesterday. She can't afford to have empty rooms at the busiest time of the year. She thinks the people from Muddle Harbor are behind all of this.”

“I suppose that's possible.”

“My mom didn't want me to come into town for work today. Said there's no telling what the Muddites will get up to next. I told her she was being silly.”

“She's just being a mom,” I said, thinking that the last thing we needed was locals to start panicking and thinking the town wasn't safe. “Moms worry.”

“Yeah, I know that. I think she was really saying she doesn't want me to move to the city. She doesn't, but she knows I have to follow my dreams.”

“And you do. Sometimes you can follow your dreams and then come back home, where you belong. Your mom knows that.”

“I'm glad Kyle's okay.”

“So am I.” We both looked to the cash counter, where Jackie was ringing up a set of cocktail napkins and matching
paper plates. Kyle, she had told us, was fine, although upset at the state of his goatee. He was also disappointed at being out of a job. Still shaken up, Dan had decided not to get another hot dog cart for the time being.

“Back soon,” I said to my staff.

I bundled myself up against the cold and went outside. The streets seemed busy. I wasn't as optimistic as I'd tried to sound. By now, I was convinced that someone was deliberately trying to ruin Christmas in Christmas Town. Maybe the Muddites, maybe someone else. I had no idea who, or why, but that didn't matter. I could only hope he or she had had enough “fun.”

Across the street, Dad was sitting on the bench in front of the library. A child was on his knee while others in the line shifted with excitement. Alan stood beside him, jotting notes on his long scroll of paper.

“That's the true spirit of Christmas Town,” Fergus Cartwright said in a booming voice.

Sue-Anne was with him, as were a couple of other councilors, putting up a united front. Detective Diane Simmonds was also part of the group. The police presence was heavier than it had been last night. But, I hoped, not so obvious to outsiders that they'd be spooked. We were standing in front of Rudolph's Gift Nook, and Betty hurried out. Not quite feeling the community spirit of Christmas Town, she hissed at us to stop blocking her window display.

I remembered what Crystal had said about everyone working together. “It's nice of Alan to give up his time to play the toymaker. I've sold out of his wooden trains, and I hear that the toy shop is getting low also. But he's come into town to help Santa rather than working.”

Betty huffed. “I still have plenty of toys left.”

“For those who like plastic and chemicals,” I said. Looks like I was also losing the Christmas spirit.

“I saw those trains the other day,” Simmonds said. “They're marvelous. I want to get some for my brother's kids. Don't tell me they're all gone?”

“The nice thing,” I said, addressing no one in particular, “about locally sourcing your stock is that supplies can quickly be refreshed. He's making more trains this weekend. They'll be here on Monday.”

“I love Alan's things,” Sue-Anne said.

“Plenty of people come to Rudolph every year just for Alan's toys,” I said. “They say their kids get a kick out of meeting the toymaker himself.”

“I don't think there's anything better for putting one in mind of an old-fashioned childhood Christmas,” Simmonds said, “than hand-painted wooden toys.”

The small group was quiet for a moment, all of us thinking of Christmases past as we watched Santa Claus and his toymaker greeting happy kids.

Most of us, anyway.

“Will you people get a move on,” Betty snapped. “No one can see my window.”

*   *   *

Mom and Dad came into the shop around ten, ready to pack it in. Dad was finished anyway, as the children who wanted to see Santa should be long tucked into bed, while dreams of sugarplums danced in their heads. Mom declared that she refused to compete with that “vile cacophony” and had called it a night.

For some reason, the town in its wisdom had hired an AC/DC cover band for the night's street dance. I tended to agree with Mom, but I made a point of never letting her know that I did. I myself enjoy a good AC/DC song, but enough really is enough.

Two women in their late seventies squealed at the sight of Dad. They wanted to sit on his lap. There are no chairs in the sales areas of my shop, so they had to be content with asking him if his beard was real and admiring the cut of his suit. They then admired Mom's cape and were delighted when she sang a few bars of “Jingle Bells” for them. At that moment, I just happened to be arranging a set of bells formed into a wreath designed to hang over the front door. The women spotted it, and before you could say
one horse open sleigh
, they were carrying it home.

“Good night, dear,” Mom said to me.

“I'll be with you in a minute, Aline,” Dad said.

“No you won't,” Mom said, more to me than to her husband. “You'll stop to talk to everyone you pass and won't make it home for hours.”

She gave me a kiss, exchanged a few words with Crystal, and left.

“Do you know,” Dad said, “what you need over there are some flowers.”

“I don't sell flowers. I have plenty of wreaths though.” My wreaths are not made of greenery, nothing living that can die, but are arrangements of glass balls or delicately twisted grape vines adorned with bows and ribbons. Some are made of fake (but tasteful!) cedar or fir boughs.

“Nope, flowers,” he said.

“Well, I don't have any.”

“Those glass vases,” Crystal said, “would work with some of the cedar branches in them, and then accented with those small red bows.”

“That would look hideous,” I said.

My dad began opening a package of the bows and collecting fake greenery. I shrugged and left him to it.

It was a few minutes before midnight and, after stifling a yawn, I was about to announce the immanent closing when the door opened once again. Several people were still in the shop, engaged in that frantic last-minute rush of purchases necessitated by closing time. We'd be open again tomorrow, but perhaps they feared most of the stock would disappear overnight.

Not that I minded frantic last-minute purchases.

Officer Candy Campbell swaggered in, hand on the butt of her gun. She was in uniform, and surveyed my shop as if suspecting I were cooking meth in the back rooms, and she was searching for addicts among my gray-haired, warmly dressed, sensibly shod customers.

“Everything okay here?” she asked.

“Fine, thank you,” I replied.

“Is there a problem?” a woman asked.

“No,” I said. “Thank you for your concern, Officer.” I glared at Candy. She glared back. The police had been told to be unobtrusive. Candy didn't do unobtrusive.

Candy's eyes moved away from me. For a moment I thought I was imagining things, as a look of—could it be?—delight appeared on her face.

“Oh,” she said. “That's so lovely.” She crossed the room in three quick strides. She stood in front of the glass vase with the, to my eye, hideous display of fake greenery and
red ribbons. “This vase would be perfect for my grandmother! She's living in a retirement home now, and she loves it when the family brings her flowers. At Christmas she can display it just like this! Will you put it away for me, Merry? I'll come in tomorrow before I start work.”

“I . . . yeah, I can do that, Can . . . Candice.”

She gave me a smile. Will wonders never cease? Candy Campbell knew how to smile. “Thanks. I'm so pleased. Grandma's difficult to buy for, but I know she's going to love it.”

She waved her fingers at me and trotted happily out the door.

“What a lovely young lady,” one of the customers said to me. “I do love the community spirit in your town. Even the police are cheerful and friendly.”

“Yes,” I choked.

“Now that I see those vases, I'm going to get one, too. I have a friend it will be perfect for.”

Eventually the last purchase was rung up and the last happy customer departed. I locked the door and fell back against it.

I switched out all the lights except for low ones behind the counter and over the display windows, and locked the door behind me. At ten past midnight the streets were still busy. The restaurants were serving the last of their customers, the shopkeepers were locking up and heading home, and people were out for a walk and enjoying the night air. From the end of the street, for about the twentieth time that night, came the sound of “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
.
”