Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen (8 page)

“Not so fast,” Dad said. “I've met Diane Simmonds, and she's no fool. It won't help if you're seen publicly arguing with her. Let your father handle it the proper way, Vicky.”

“Coffee,” chirped Jackie, appearing with two giant take-away cups. My office was now getting seriously overcrowded, “Hey, Mr. Wilkinson. If I'd known you were here, I'd have brought you one.”

“I'm fine, Jackie. Thanks.”

“There's a heck of a fuss going on further up the street,” she said, passing out the drinks. “A bunch of people are outside the bakery. What's going on?”

Vicky and I looked at each other. My dad plucked the latte out of my hands. “Guess you won't be needing this. I'll help Jackie mind the store until you get back.”

Vicky and I ran out onto the street. “What the heck?” Vicky said as Victoria's Bake Shoppe came into sight. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, chatting excitedly amongst themselves. As Vicky and I approached, they fell silent and stepped back. Everyone watched as we mounted the steps. Inside, the bakery was dark and quiet. No wonderful smells emanated from its depths. A sign had been stuck to the door.

A yellow county health department notice. “Closed.”

Vicky groaned.

I noticed the owner of A Touch of Holly, the town's premier fine dining establishment, edge away from her, as if Vicky were carrying something contagious.

“Move along now, folks. Nothing to see here.” Officer Candy Campbell pushed her way through the crowd.

No one moved so much as a muscle. Did they ever, when a cop said, “Nothing to see here”?

“Is there a problem, Ms. Casey?” Candy said.

“No problem,” Vicky said.

“Then you can be on your way.”

“This is a public sidewalk,” I pointed out. “We can stand here if we want. As long as we want.”

Candy struggled to bite back a retort. I was perfectly right, and she knew it. She turned to the crowd of onlookers,
their numbers growing as news of a potential altercation spread. “You folks are blocking the sidewalk.”

“What of it?” a man said.

Russ Durham ran across the street, his ever-present camera at the ready. I cursed under my breath. Just what Vicky needed.

“Problem, Officer?” he asked.

“No,” Candy said.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Andrea, I saw a couple checking out the signboard in front of your place as I passed. You might want to see that they get some service.” A plump middle-aged woman, one who clearly enjoyed the fare served at her own restaurant, hurried away. The crowd began to shift.

“Betty Thatcher,” Russ said. “I might want a picture of that sweater for our advertising supplement next week. You get extra space with a picture. I'd prefer to shoot it in the Nook rather than out on the street.”

“Goodness,” Mrs. Thatcher said, patting her hair. “I'd better freshen up.” She hurried away. The crowd broke up, and in a matter of minutes only Russ, Candy, Vicky, and I were left. Rather than being grateful to him for diffusing the situation, Candy threw Russ a poisonous glare. I presumed she'd have preferred to drag us all off to jail in handcuffs. “I want no more trouble here,” she snapped. She marched away, her head high.

So high, she failed to notice when she'd reached the edge of the sidewalk. She tripped and stumbled into the road with a startled squeak and windmilling arms. Fortunately—for her—no cars were passing at that moment. She recovered
her footing with a hop, skip, and a jump, and marched away. The back of her neck was so red it could be used as a traffic stop.

“Don't laugh,” Vicky said to me.

“Not a laughing matter. Thanks, Russ. You handled that well. I'm surprised.”

He grinned at me. “Surprised I diffused an incident rather than stoked it to make for better pictures and copy for the paper? Believe it or not, Merry, I'm as proud a booster of this town as anyone else. What happens here matters to me.” He indicated the sign on Vicky's door. “And that isn't good. Not for you, and definitely not for the town. I assume it has something to do with Nigel Pearce.”

“I didn't poison him!” Vicky said.

“I didn't think for a moment that you did. Look, I was coming to find you two anyway. I went by Mrs. Claus's and Noel told me you were here. Something I need to talk to you about.” He glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers. The snow had stopped falling, leaving the air icy fresh and the trees lining the sidewalk laden with pure white powder. Cars drove slowly by, and a few pedestrians were window-shopping, but no one was paying any more attention to us. Up and down the street lights glimmered inside shops and businesses, warm and inviting. Victoria's Bake Shoppe, in contrast, stood dark and cold in the center of the block.

“What?” Vicky snapped. “I'm not giving a statement to the papers. Except to say that my bakery is totally safe and we follow the highest standards . . .”

He lifted one hand. “Hold on. I know that. I got a call. An anonymous call, about fifteen minutes ago. I was told
that Nigel Pearce had died from eating a cookie laced with GHB, a street drug, served at the post-parade reception Saturday night.”

“So,” I said. “We know that. That's why the health department has closed the bakery.”

“You know because Vicky told you, right?”

“Yes.”

“And Vicky knows that because the police told her, right?”

“Yeah,” my friend said. “I was taken down to the station earlier and questioned. My dad came with me and they told him what had happened. Why?”

“After I got my anonymous call, I placed a call of my own to Detective Simmonds. She not very helpfully said the investigation was continuing, but she could confirm that at this time they were acting under the suspicion of homicide. She would give me no details of any suspects or of the cause of death.”

“So this person who told you . . .” I said.

“Wants to make sure the nasty details end up in the paper.”

“This caller,” I said. “Was it a man or a woman? Was there anything familiar about their voice?”

Russ shook his head. “It was very muffled, as though they'd placed a piece of cloth or something across the receiver, like you see in old spy movies. Clearly, they didn't want me knowing who it was.”

“Why would anyone want it in the paper?” Vicky exclaimed. “Not only will it interfere with the police investigation, but with only three weeks left until Christmas, if news like that gets around, it could ruin Rudolph. No one'll come if they think there's a killer on the loose.”

“Not only a killer but one who struck at the town's Christmas party,” Russ said. “While Santa bounced their kids on his knee and we passed out free gingerbread and cider.”

Vicky and I stared at each other in horror.

Russ's face was grim. “I can only assume the ruin of Christmas in Rudolph is exactly what my mysterious caller wants to see happen.”

R
uss had to get back to the paper. He wouldn't report on the anonymous tip, he told us, but he couldn't pretend Nigel Pearce hadn't died in our town. He'd have to write up
something
.

“Try not to worry,” he said. “I did some checking into Diane Simmonds's background when she was hired and her record's pretty solid. She was a sergeant in Chicago and a darn good one, if her solve rate is anything to go by.”

“Why do you suppose she moved to sleepy old Rudolph?” Vicky asked. Neither Russ nor I bothered to point out that suddenly, rather than being sleepy, it seemed as though Rudolph had become precisely the right place to be for a cop with a good solve rate.

“Something about a bad divorce and a nasty custody battle with a fellow officer,” Russ said. “She has the child with her, so I guess the custody case went her way.” He gave
Vicky a spontaneous hug. “You take care, and try not to worry. I'll let you know what I hear.” Then he hugged me. He didn't let go as quickly as he had with Vicky. His arms were warm and strong and for a moment I wanted to melt into them and let him take all my problems away. “You take care too, Merry,” he whispered into my hair. “Hard to believe, but there is a killer out there.”

He let me go and stepped back. His hazel eyes were dark and serious. “Call me if you need anything.” He hefted his camera and dashed across the street.

Vicky turned to me with a grin. “Long hug.”

“He's trying to be supportive. That's nice of him.”

“Very nice.”

“What's that mean?”

“Nothing. I have to get around to my dad's office to go over what we're going to do next. He had to clear his schedule first.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“Thanks, sweetie, but no. You have your own business to attend to. Mine”—she cast a rueful look toward the closed, dark bakery—“is not in need of attending.”

“Temporarily,” I said.

“Temporarily.”

We hugged, told each other not to worry, and went our separate ways. I walked back to Mrs. Claus's Treasures deep in thought. Russ might be confident of Detective Simmonds's abilities, but I was not. I thought the police had acted mighty hastily in closing Vicky's bakery. Sure, I could see it if everyone at the party had come down with food poisoning. But one cookie? How anxious was Simmonds to make her mark in her new town anyway? Was she the
sort to rush to judgment and then try to find the facts to fit her case?

I wasn't worried that Vicky would be charged with murdering Pearce. She had absolutely no reason to care about him one way or another. But, if she was forced to remain closed through the rest of the season and the reputation of her bakery was destroyed, it would just about kill her.

I was closer to Vicky than to my own sisters. Always had been. She was fun-loving, impetuous, wild at times (that purple hair didn't go over very well at the meetings of the Business Improvement Association, which was part of the reason she wore it like that), but her bakery meant everything to her and she'd worked darn hard to make it a success.

I would do all that I could to make sure Vicky came out of this mess unscathed.

Back at Mrs. Claus's Treasures, Dad was rearranging the window displays. Gone was the assortment of jewelry, and in its place he'd put an arrangement of dinner plates, painted wineglasses, napkins, and tablecloths, all of which had a Christmas theme.

“What do you think you're doing, Dad? I left you here to help Jackie.”

Jackie was behind the cash register, flicking through a fashion magazine.

“Jackie doesn't seem to need any help,” he replied. “But you do. That window didn't say ‘Christmas' well enough.”

“Of course it says Christmas! It says nothing but Christmas. It couldn't say Christmas any louder if it went up to the top of the hill and screamed Christmas through a megaphone.”

“Christmas is about family. Families getting together
for the holidays, sitting down to dinner at a time of love and peace. Christmas is about food. You might ask Vicky if she has some pies or tarts she isn't going to use to add to the display.”

“Christmas is also about presents, Dad. Jewelry makes nice presents. Men like to see jewelry displays. It means they don't have to spend any time thinking about what to buy their wives.”

“Christmas presents are for children,” said Santa Claus. “Not adults.”

In that, Dad practiced what he preached. The moment I turned eighteen, I no longer got gifts from my parents or my siblings, nor was I expected to give any. The bottom of our tree was always piled high with gaily wrapped packages, but those were for the children of my parents' friends (which meant just about everyone in Rudolph) who would drop by for Mom's famous open house Christmas brunch. My parents didn't exchange gifts, either, although Mom and I got gifts from and sent gifts to her family. Dad might not believe in Christmas gifts between adults, but Mom made sure that she got plenty of loot the rest of the year, particularly on her birthday.

Oh, and did I mention that Dad's birthday is December twenty-fifth? Somehow it was okay for us to give him birthday presents. It was always a challenge in Rudolph in December to find wrapping paper that did not have a Christmas motif.

“Not everyone is as hidebound as you, Dad,” I said. “If men want to buy their wives gifts I'm not going to tell them not to, now am I?”

“Did I tell you to turn them away? I did not. I merely thought that a nice display in the window would remind
people that their holiday table needs updating.” His top lip turned down and the sparkle went out of his blue eyes as he peered at me from under his big, bushy white brows.

“Oh, Dad,” I said. I threw a glance at Jackie. She was laughing silently.

The bell over the door tinkled and two women came in. “I am so tired of my mother's Spode dishes,” one of them said to the other. “Christmas dinner was never anything but an ordeal for my mother, what with
her
mother-in-law, and every time I get out those plates I'm reminded of how much she hated the holidays.” She smiled at me. “Those red and gold dishes in the window are simply divine. Do they come in sets? Good, I'll take twelve sets, please. And the gold chargers to go with them. It's time I gave everything that had been my mother's to a good home.”

I stared at my father.

“Careful, Merry,” he said, “You'll catch flies.” I snapped my mouth shut.

I shouldn't have been so surprised: my father was Santa Claus, after all.

Jackie hopped off her stool. “I'll get them.”

“Do you know,” the woman's friend said, “I've just remembered that at Thanksgiving Tom broke not one but two of the Riedel wineglasses, and then his fool of a brother chipped another. And now I'm expected to put on Christmas dinner as well. I'll take twelve of those glasses in the window, please.”

Dad reached under a table and pulled out a box of the glasses. “Anything else, madam?” he said.

“My tree could use an update, too. Do you have any tasteful tree ornaments? Glass balls are always nice.”

“Right over here,” he said with a flourish, showing her the display he'd set out yesterday.

One of the women went to get their car and she pulled up out front a few minutes later. Dad and Jackie loaded their boxes into the trunk. The car horn tooted as it drove away, while Dad stood in the street waving.

“Isn't that your car parked right in front, Merry?” he said when he came back in. “You're blocking customer parking.”

“I'll move it later,” I said. “Right now there's a hole in the window display. That's my entire stock of those Christmas dishes gone. What do you suggest I put in the window next?”

“Jewelry might be nice,” Dad said. “Men like to give their wives and mothers jewelry for Christmas. Is Vicky okay?”

I brought my head away from thoughts of decorating the shop window and returned to more pressing matters. “Not really,” I said. “She didn't say in so many words, but I can't imagine she can keep the business going if its reputation is ruined and she's closed at the busiest time of the year.” Jackie hadn't returned to her spot behind the cash register. She was rearranging the rack of cocktail and dinner napkins, her head noticeably tilted in the direction of my dad and me.

“I have to go home and let Mattie out. Come with me, Dad. I have something I need to talk to you about.”

Jackie might have muttered, “Aren't you supposed to be working here?” I ignored her.

“Okay,” Dad said. “Jackie, lay out some of those brooches, will you? The ones tucked behind the wooden soldiers. No one can see them there.”

“Those were a mistake,” I said. “They're too old-fashioned to be popular. They're only twenty bucks each, but I'm going to cut the price next week just to get rid of them.”

A man came into the shop. He had that deer-in-the-headlights look that many men get when entering a non-hardware store on their annual expedition in search of a present.

“I wonder if you can help me,” he said hesitantly. Yup, a once-a-year shopper.

“Happy to,” I said.

“I'll wait outside,” Dad said.

“Are you looking for a gift?” I asked the new customer.

“Several gifts, in fact. My great-grandmother turned one hundred over the summer and for the first time in her life she can't get out shopping so she asked me to pick some things up for her. She likes to give a little something to the other ladies in her residence. She has ten friends and wants to spend about twenty dollars on each of them.”

I left Jackie wrapping ten rhinestone brooches in gift wrap and joined my father on the sidewalk. “Do you want a job?” I asked.

“Nope.”

We got into my car, and I pulled into the street. Traffic was building and someone nabbed my spot as soon as I left it.

“What's up?” Dad said.

“Russ Durham knows that Nigel Pearce was killed by GHB. Someone phoned and told him.”

“Who?”

“An anonymous call, apparently.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” I said. “You and I both know that Vicky's bakery is squeaky clean, but that's beside the point. Only one person died that night, even though there must have been more than a hundred people at the reception, every one of them eating and drinking the same food. And that includes children and old folks, the people most likely to contract food poisoning. The cops say the drug was in a gingerbread cookie. I have to accept that because I have no reason not to. I assume they're pretty accurate with that sort of thing these days. But only one cookie was bad.”

I pulled into the parking lot behind the library to turn around. And also, incidentally, to see if anything was happening outside the police station. All was quiet.

My dad was a man of few words. “Pearce had a special cookie, as I recall,” he said at last.

“Right, Charles Dickens. In honor of our English guest.”

“Did Vicky tell people it was for Pearce?”

“I don't know. She probably did, she wouldn't have wanted just anyone helping themselves to it. You're thinking that Pearce was deliberately targeted?”

“That seems likely. Think back to that evening, Merry. I didn't go into the kitchen, but you did. Where were the special cookies?”

“Right out on the counter. With plastic wrap over them and a note that said, ‘Do not serve.' Obviously Vicky didn't want her helpers to take that tray out before everything was ready for the presentation.”

“So if it was on the counter all evening . . .”

I followed his train of thought. “Anyone could have come into the kitchen, at any time. Not just Vicky and her helpers, but the community center staff.”

“People in search of a glass of water. Or pretending to be in search of one.”

I envisioned the scene. Countless people came and went throughout the party. The kitchen opened directly into the main room, and a guard hadn't exactly been placed on the door. “What does GHB look like, anyway?” I asked.

Dad pulled out his phone and pressed a few keys. “A fine white powder.”

I remembered the Charles Dickens cookie, decorated with a layer of thick white icing. “The poisoner might not have known the cookie was intended specifically for Pearce,” I said.

“That seems unlikely. There were what, ten cookies on that tray? The rest of us simply helped ourselves. Unless the killer, and we have to start thinking of him like that, Merry . . .”

“Or her,” I said.

“Or her . . . intended this to be some random act aimed at no one in particular, we have to conclude that Pearce was the intended victim.”

“It's probably just our rotten luck that he was killed in Rudolph,” I said. “No one here had laid eyes on him before Saturday. His enemy must have followed him here. The town was full of tourists, anyone at all could have slipped in, done the deed, and then left town.”