A Slay Ride Together with You

  A YEAR-ROUND CHRISTMAS MYSTERY

  Vicki Delany

  To my mother, still going strong as her 100th birthday approaches.

  Chapter One

  Spring in Rudolph, New York, is a time to relax. A time to welcome the long-awaited arrival of soft rains and longer days. A time of a warming sun, when the fields turn green almost instantly, and the first of the green shoots struggle to push their way out of the cold, dark soil.

  Rudolph, New York, calls itself “America’s Christmas Town,” and to the relief of everyone in town, spring—and the celebration of Easter that comes with it—is a long way until Christmas rolls around once again.

  Not that we don’t love Christmas. We do. It’s the entire reason behind the success of our town and the prosperity of its residents, and we celebrate the season with all the joy it deserves.

  Joy—and a heck of a lot of hard work.

  We don’t even get a break in the summer, as Christmas in July is almost as big an occasion as the holidays themselves. Old Saint Nick arrives by boat for his vacation by the lake, and he’s escorted into town by a full-scale nautical Santa Claus parade.

  Easter, by contrast, is a lower-key time. Not a lot of tourists come to town in the early spring, and some shop owners take the opportunity to enjoy their own vacations. The end of winter is a time for me to close my store, Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, early; to do inventory; to read design and houseware catalogues, and order what I’ll need for the busy summer and holiday seasons.

  Time to spend with my boyfriend, Alan Anderson. Alan’s a woodworker. He handcrafts furniture and many of the toys sold in stores throughout Upstate New York. He also acts as Santa’s head toymaker at public events, so for Alan, Easter’s also a time to sit back and take a breath. My parents will be hosting Easter dinner this year, but it won’t be anything near the over-the-top event they put on at Christmas.

  Oh, and did I mention that my own father, Noel Wilkinson, is the official town Santa? Needless to say, in America’s Christmas Town that’s almost a full-time job at certain times of the year.

  Easter was late this year, and it was still a just under a month away, but some of the stores had started filling their shelves and windows with decorations featuring bunnies and colored eggs and chicks peeking out of baskets. Tonight, the lights in the big tree in the bandstand at the town park would be switched on in a blaze of pale blue, soft green, and bright pink. The week prior to Easter itself, the town’s horse-drawn Christmas sleigh would be converted to an Easter wagon, taking excited kids and indulgent parents from one side of town to the other. And back again.

  I’d taken advantage of the midweek, pre-Easter lull to take an extra-long break, and I was enjoying a leisurely lunch across the table from my best friend, Vicky Casey, owner and head chef at Victoria’s Bake Shoppe.

  Only a couple of weeks ago, Vicky had told me in a burst of excitement, not at all untypical of her, that she and Mark Grosse had gotten engaged. After I’d squealed and jumped up and down and hugged her until she struggled to breathe, I’d asked the most logical questions, which were when the wedding would be. And could I be a bridesmaid.

  “We haven’t set a date yet,” she said, “and we’re planning a pretty low-key affair. Immediate family, close friends.” She gave me a wink. “I suppose I can squeeze you in. If I must.” This time her hug was as enthusiastic as mine. I liked Mark a great deal, and I thought he was a good match for the woman I’d been best friends with since the first day of school.

  At first, I’d thought she’d suggested today’s lunch so we could talk wedding plans, but I soon realized something was off, and I wondered if she was getting cold feet. She should have been relaxed today, without the hordes of tourists lining up for breakfast, lunch, or take-out meals and treats, but instead she was noticeably on edge as she fidgeted in her seat, alternately watching everything happening around her with a vacant expression and pushing pieces of chicken pot pie around her plate.

  I tore a hunk off one of Vicky’s bakery-made whole-wheat buns, dipped it into my curried butternut squash soup, and munched happily. I said nothing. I didn’t ask her what was wrong. She knew I was here for her and she’d tell me—or not—in her own time.

  The bakery wasn’t Christmas-hordes crowded, but it was busy with Rudolphites enjoying their own lunch, and the occasional confused tourist who’d wandered into Christmas Town three weeks prior to Easter.

  Like the other owners of most of the shops and restaurants in town, including me, Vicky had made an effort to add some seasonal touches to the usual Christmas decorations and fare. Hot cross buns were displayed in the bread racks, and baked ham and scalloped potatoes were featured on the catering menu. A row of paper cutouts colored to look like Easter eggs hung in the window, and a pair of stuffed Easter bunnies stood on the shelf above the serving counter, next to the trophies for the winning float in last year’s Santa Claus parades. Vicky’s bakery wins the prize almost every year—twice—and Mrs. Claus’s Treasures never has. I put that down to the fact that Vicky bribes the judges with hot cider and homemade mince tarts before the parade begins.

  I try not to let it bother me. In that, I fail.

  “Mom’s going to Italy next month,” I said around a spoonful of soup. My mother, Aline Steiner, is an opera singer. She was a major star in her day, soloing at the Metropolitan Opera as well as at some of the best opera houses in Europe and Asia. A young singer Mom had taken under her wing shortly before she retired was having his first solo performance in Madama Butterfly at La Scala, and Mom was excited about attending.

  “Hmm.” Vicky speared a slice of chicken. She stared intently at it twirling in the air on the end of her fork. Her sleeves were pulled back, and I could see the tattoo of a gingerbread cookie (the specialty of Victoria’s Bake Shoppe) on her thin wrist. A line of silver rings ran up both ears, and a long pink lock of hair fell over her right eye. Pink, in honor of the season. The rest of her jet-black hair was shaved almost down to the scalp.

  “She’s decided to run for pope and needs to get better known before the current pope dies,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Vicky said.

  “Vicky.”

  Her head jerked up. “What?”

  “You are not listening to me. Obviously, something’s on your mind. Want to share?”

  She let out a long sigh. I ate my bread and finished my soup and contemplated having something for dessert.

  “Yeah. You’re right, Merry, as you usually are.”

  “As I always am,” I said modestly. “Are things okay with you and Mark?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine. It’s not that.” She put down her fork and looked at me. “I’ve a big decision to make. Actually, change that: I’ve made a big decision.”

  My heart missed a beat. Was Vicky going to tell me she and Mark were moving away? Mark was head chef at one of the fanciest restaurants in the area. He should be able to get a good job just about anywhere. Would Vicky go with him? Leave Rudolph? The first day of kindergarten, Vicky, already looming over me at five years old, stood in front of me, hands on her nonexistent hips, and informed me I would be her best friend. Shy, nervous little me, not thinking I had much choice in the matter, agreed.

  Best friends we still were.

  It would break my heart if she left Rudolph. It would upset the natural order of things. I was the one who’d gone away. I’d sought the bright lights and the big career and true love in the big city. But I’d eventually realized that bright lights aren’t as good as Christmas lights, and the big career didn’t measure up to owning my own beloved store. And true love was waiting for me here at home all along.

  I put down my spoon and said nothing. I waited. She had her own life to live, and I’d support her in whatever she decided.

  “Mark’s found a house he wants us to buy.”

  “He’s been talking about that for a while. Alan told me he isn’t having a lot of luck. In some ways Rudolph’s been a victim of its own success; it’s increasingly difficult for people who work here to find a place to live at a price they can afford. I heard he was considering going as far afield as Muddle Harbor.” I suppressed a shudder. “Did he?”

  “Buy in Muddle Harbor? Thankfully not. No, we have found something we can afford in Rudolph. Not all that far from your place, close to the lake.”

  I mentally scanned a map of my neighborhood of grand Victorian-era homes on large pieces of land. Houses built for prosperous businessmen and shipping magnates with big families and a fleet of servants in the days when Rudolph was a vitally important Great Lakes port. In recent years, some of the big houses had been broken up into apartments or office suites. I myself occupied half of the top floor of one of those houses. Over the long years of the town’s decline, many of the grand old houses had been torn down or allowed to fall into disrepair, eventually replaced in the 1960s or 1970s by small bungalows on enormous lots. In turn, those houses were being bulldozed, and bigger and more modern houses plopped down on the large lakeview lots.

  “I’m glad you found something,” I said. “What street is it on?”

  “Lakeside Drive.”

  I blinked. Mark must be doing better than I’d thought at his chef’s job. Either that or he was trying to convince Vicky to take on a mortgage they couldn’t comfortably afford.

  “The house isn’t directly on the lake front path, though. It’s at the end of the street, tucked up against the hill.”


>   “Those are still mighty nice houses and a great location. Which is entirely beside the point. You’re obviously not entirely comfortable with it. Don’t you like the house? It’s a big step. Don’t let him talk you into something that’s not right for you.”

  “I like the house fine. Good location. Big lot. It’s sure to appreciate in value. I’ll still be able to walk to work, which is important to me.”

  “But?”

  “I don’t know if Sandbanks will be okay with the move.”

  I laughed. Sandbanks was Vicky’s increasingly ancient golden Labrador. “Sandbanks will be fine. All he wants in life is a comfy rug, a full food bowl, and a piece of grass where he can relieve himself. Besides, you told me the other day the lease on your apartment is up at the end of this month and you’d decided not to renew it, in anticipation of the upcoming nuptials. Are you using Sandbanks as an excuse? If so, you don’t need an excuse. You need to tell Mark no. If he doesn’t understand, then that’s an answer in itself.”

  The edges of her mouth lifted. “Not an excuse. I worry about the old guy.”

  “Mark or Sandbanks?”

  Vicky laughed. “I should have come to you in the first place, soon as he asked me about the house. Mark loves Sandbanks, and it’ll be even easier managing him when we’re together. I work mornings and afternoons, and Mark’s at the restaurant mostly late afternoons and evenings, so the dog’s needs are covered. The house is a good investment, Merry. And it’s not as though Mark wants to move away. Which I don’t, so that would be a problem.”

  “Obviously it’s your decision. Buying a house is a big step, but if you’re sure the investment is sound, you can always sell the house later. Right? Maybe even make a nice profit to get a place you two like better. By the way, Mom doesn’t want to be pope.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” I had a thought. “Just make sure you’re not overcommitting yourself financially.”

  “Mark …” She smiled to herself, and I knew before she said anything that she’d made up her mind. “I’ll admit to being a bit hesitant, but Mark loves the house. He’s so excited about us starting our lives in it together.” She leaped to her feet and ran around the table, then bent over me and wrapped me in an enormous hug that had the breath shooting out of me. “You are the best, Merry.”

  “I know that,” I said when I could breathe again.

  “I’m going to phone Mark right now!” She spun around, fumbling in her jeans pocket for her phone, heading for the door.

  “Wait!” I said. “Hold on. One minute.”

  She turned back. Her face shone with joy. “Yes?”

  “I’m happy for you. For you both. But I have to ask. Oh, never mind. None of my business.”

  She skipped away.

  I pushed my empty bowl to one side and unhooked my purse from the back of my chair. I’d intended to ask her how, if Mark was earlier complaining he might have to go all the way to Muddle Harbor to find something he and Vicky could afford, they could then turn around and buy a house on Lakeside Drive. But that truly was none of my business, right? Maybe he’d come into an unexpected inheritance; maybe his or Vicky’s parents had offered to help the newlyweds with the down payment.

  I decided to celebrate Vicky’s news with a lemon tart. My favorite thing Vicky bakes is her mince tarts, but she only makes those in the holiday season. Lemon would have to do. Mince or lemon or anything else, Vicky’s were the best I’ve ever had. By far.

  I joined the line for counter service. Two women were in front of me. The smaller was on her phone, gasping in shock as she heard some piece of news. Her friend nodded politely at me in recognition. They were locals, about seventy years old. I didn’t know their names, but I often saw them around town or enjoying a glass of lemonade on the front porch of my own house, in the company of my landlady.

  The shorter one put her phone away and turned to her friend with a satisfied expression. “You were right, Dottie. The news has been positively confirmed by none other than Mabel D’Angelo herself.”

  “Hard to credit. After all these years.”

  “Incredible, isn’t it? I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. You heard Emmeline died recently?”

  “I did,” Dottie replied. “I also heard no one went to the funeral. No one except her lawyer and a few people from her charity groups. So sad.”

  “Such a tragedy. The poor thing.”

  The line edged forward. Maybe rather than a lemon tart, I’d have a raspberry one. They did look delicious. Perfect little jewels.

  “It’s true then,” Dottie said. “Some fool went and bought Cole House.”

  “Whoever it is must be a complete outsider. No one who knows a thing about that place would want to live there.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you talking about that old house on Lakeside Drive?”

  “Good afternoon, Merry,” Dottie said. Her friend nodded enthusiastically. “That we are. Marlene Jones is the realtor. I assume they gave her that listing because she’s at the absolute bottom of the pile in the realtor’s office. I heard she was about to quit and go back to teaching, she’s such a bad salesperson. She’ll be overjoyed to get that dump off her hands so quickly.”

  “I suppose,” her friend said, “the new owner will tear that heap down and build another from scratch.”

  “Won’t help. Everyone knows the grounds are as cursed as the house.”

  Chapter Two

  Once Vicky and Mark had made up their minds, things happened quickly. As the house was currently unoccupied and the owner recently deceased, the closing took little more than a week.

  “The real estate agent is going to hand over the keys to us at three.” Vicky phoned me on Friday, only a week after she’d given me the news about Mark and her buying Cole House. “Want to come with me?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather it be just you and Mark? The first time inside as the owners?”

  “We did a final walk-through a couple of days ago, after we put in the offer and secured the financing. He didn’t exactly carry me over the threshold”—she chuckled deep in her throat—“but it was still nice. Except for that woman following us from room to room in case we intended to steal something. Not that there’s anything we’d want to steal. Never mind. Today, it will be our very own house.”

  “In that case, I’d like to see it.” I hadn’t seen or spoken to Vicky since our lunch, although I’d received a steady stream of excited texts to do with meeting with lawyers and bankers and signing documents. Vicky might have had her initial doubts about buying the house, but as usual, once she’d made up her mind, she was in all in with everything she had. “I have to ask, Vicky, are you talking about the place at the end of Lakeside Drive? The one that stands all by itself and is … somewhat overgrown.”

  “Yup. The garden’s a jungle, and the house needs a lot of work. That’s the only reason we could afford it.”

  “Is Mark skilled enough? Is he planning to renovate it himself?”

  “He can do some of the work, as time permits, and we’ll save for the bigger stuff that we need help and licensed contractors to do. I’m so excited.” I heard the sound of clapping hands. “I’ll pick you up at five to three. Bring Mattie. He’ll enjoy exploring the yard.” She hung up. I turned to see my shop assistant, Jackie O’Reilly, watching me, her ears standing at attention. She shook her head. “I would never listen in on a private conversation, Merry—you know that—but considering you took that call standing right there, I couldn’t help but overhear. Everyone’s talking about it. Mark Grosse and Vicky Casey bought Cole House. The general consensus around town is that they’ve lost their minds. Then again, he’s an outsider, and chefs are said to be temperamental, so maybe he didn’t know any better. But you’d think Vicky Casey would. Do you think that’s wise?”

  “I think,” I said, “it’s none of your business, Jackie.”

  “Sure it is,” she said cheerfully. “Everyone in town will be talking about nothing else by nightfall, if they aren’t already. And I have the inside scoop.” She rubbed her hands together. Her eyes gleamed in anticipation. Jackie wasn’t exactly the ideal employee; she generally considered me to be more of an obstacle to the efficient running of the store than the actual boss. And she had no hesitation in letting me know it. But she was unfailingly cheerful and good with the customers. Men liked her small-town pretty looks that might almost (and incorrectly) be called wholesome, and women liked her bouncy personality.