“If you don’t get that now, you’ll be sorry,” her friend said, expressing a sentiment I like to hear. “You might not be able to find anything so nice later at other places.”

  “I’m glad you like those,” I said. “They’re handmade by an artisan who lives and works a few miles from here. He makes each piece specifically for this store and others in the area, and delivers each set personally.”

  “That’s good to know. I always like to support local businesses whenever I can. I’ll take the house and the barn, please. And some of the train tracks. My grandson will be four by Christmas, and he’ll adore them.”

  I took two boxes off the shelf and put them on the sales counter while the women continued browsing. The friend bought several pieces of jewelry, and the toy buyer got a lovely spring-weight silk scarf in swirling shades of green and pink for herself.

  “Good choice,” Jackie said. “I adore these scarves. I brought one for my mom’s birthday last summer, and she simply never takes it off.”

  That was true. Except for the “bought” part. Jackie had exclaimed so often about how much her mother would love the scarf, always adding too bad it was so expensive. Sigh. I ended up gifting it to her to keep her happy. Jackie was a good employee, and I needed to keep her happy.

  “I’ll be in the office if you need anything,” I said to her once our customers had left.

  “I never do,” she replied.

  Mattie was stretched out on the floor beneath my desk. His water bowl was empty and the carpet around it sodden. He lumbered to his feet when I came in and gave my shoes a good sniff, the equivalent of asking if I’d had a nice morning. I had not, but I didn’t tell him so. Instead, I dropped into the chair behind my desk, pulled out my phone, and called Vicky.

  “Is this your one allotted phone call?” she asked me.

  “Fortunately not. I’m free and at the store. I’m just checking in.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “She didn’t tell me much, and I didn’t have anything new to tell her. But …”

  “I never like it when you say but that way. But what?”

  “Most of her questions were about Mark. Like how angry was he when you told him someone had been prowling around outside.”

  “Did you say prowling?”

  “I think I did. She tried to nail me down as to how much time passed since Mark went outside to check and when he called you to say he’d found Jim Cole. I refused to be nailed, largely because I genuinely can’t say.”

  “That sentence ends with an unsaid but.”

  “But enough time did pass for Mark to … do something.”

  “Surely you don’t believe he killed that man!” She kept her voice low, but the shout was implied.

  “Calm down. Of course I don’t. I fear Simmonds is considering it—that’s all. So I’m giving you a heads-up.” I didn’t believe Mark had killed Jim. Not because I knew Mark all that well—I don’t—or because I know for sure what he’s capable of doing or not doing. But I was sure if he had struck Jim Cole, it hadn’t been with the intent to kill him, and he would not have lied about what happened.

  “Okay,” Vicky said. “I just got off the phone with Mark. Did Simmonds tell you they found the likely murder weapon?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Not one of our knives, thank heavens. She showed Mark a photograph of a rock. They found a rock, a common rock, under a tree within easy throwing distance of the body. Traces of blood and … other stuff, indicate it was likely the rock that hit Cole over the head. They’re doing further analysis now. She also told Mark they might not be able to get fingerprints off it. Sometimes it’s difficult to do on such rough surfaces.”

  That cinched Mark’s innocence, in my mind. Mark was a big guy. He worked out regularly and was heavily muscled from swinging a cleaver and wrestling with heavy pots all day. He was in his thirties. Jim Cole had been short, overweight, and a great deal older. If Mark had wanted to scare off Jim with a physical attack, one good solid punch to the jaw would have had the man on the ground. He would not have snuck up behind Jim with a rock he just happened to pick up off the ground.

  I reminded myself that whatever I thought about anyone’s guilt or innocence was worth literally nothing to the police or the courts.

  “She also told Mark they found signs of someone trying to break into the house.”

  “Yeah. She told me that too. If he’d been at your place other nights, someone might have known that. And either followed him there or lain in wait for him to show up.”

  “I’m scared,” Vicky said.

  “Simmonds is a good detective. You know that. She’ll get at the truth.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Miscarriages of justice do happen, Merry. Suppose she never does find out who did it. Will suspicion hang over Mark for the rest of his life? People are talking about little else. The staff tell me a couple of customers have asked if Mark or I mistook Jim Cole for an intruder. Aunt Marjorie got a call from a friend saying she knows someone who said she’d never come in here again. I quote: ‘That Vicky Casey never did have a lick of sense, and now she’s going around stirring up ghosts best left to rest.’”

  “Not good,” I said. “Leave it with me.”

  “Leave what with you?”

  “Investigating, of course. I’ll find out what I can about Jim Cole. Maybe he had enemies lining up, waiting for the chance to catch him off guard. Maybe there’s rumors of treasure hidden under your floorboards, and someone’s after it.”

  “If there had been rumors of treasure in that house, Merry, everyone in Rudolph would know about it.”

  “Work with me here, Vicky. All I’m saying is I’ll try.”

  “Thanks. That’s good of you. If you come up with anything, let me know. Barring any unexpected developments, I’ll come with you tomorrow.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “The luncheon at the Yuletide. The hospital was so great to my dad when he had his heart attack, I want to do what I can to give back.”

  “Oh, right. That. Okay. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up. I looked at Mattie. I sighed. “I’ll do what I can do, okay? Wait here—I’ll be right back.”

  I went to the front of the shop and told Jackie I was going out for a while, but I wouldn’t be long.

  “Investigating the Cole murder, are you?” she said. “Don’t worry about a thing, Merry. I’ve got your back.”

  “I’m not investigating anything. I … have to go home for … something I forgot.”

  She gave me an exaggerated wink. “Right. Oh, when you do solve it, if you have a chance, can you call Kyle before calling the cops? If he can be there for the takedown and get a good shot of the action and the face of the killer, it would be a big boost to his portfolio.”

  “Yeah, sure. I can do that.” An image flashed across my mind. Me holding a miscreant at knifepoint while I phoned Kyle Lambert, waited for him to find his camera and car keys, get his old truck started (if it did), drive far too fast to the scene of the citizen’s arrest, fumble with his camera, set all the correct settings, and line up the shot, hopefully without forgetting to take the lens cap off.

  I went to the office to get Mattie. As long as I was going out, he could use the walk. We were heading to the source of all gossip in Rudolph and environs: my house.

  Like Shelob in her cave, my landlady, Mabel D’Angelo lurks at the center of the web of gossip that stretches throughout this part of Upstate New York. Mrs. D’Angelo lives for gossip. She isn’t entirely reliable because if she doesn’t know something, she doesn’t like to admit it, so she makes things up. I hoped she wouldn’t need to embellish the story of Cole House and the Cole family. If I wanted to know why Jim Cole died, a good starting place would be to learn what I could about his life.

  I wasn’t at all worried about not finding Mrs. D’Angelo in or unable to take the time to talk. Our house is the nicest kept on our stretch of the street. Not necessarily because the owner enjoys gardening, but because when she’s outside, she can keep her eyes on the comings and goings. I found her on her knees next to a flower bed, carefully pulling burgeoning weeds away from the first fresh green shoots of hosta.

  The moment she saw us coming down the sidewalk, she leaped to her feet with surprising agility, considering her age. “Merry Wilkinson! The very person I’ve been wanting to talk to. The entire town is abuzz about last night’s happenings at Vicky Casey’s new place. Time for tea? Good! I happen to have a pitcher in the fridge. It’s a mite chilly for sitting outside today, but my porch blocks the wind. Come along, come along.” Mattie and I were dragged in Mrs. D’Angelo’s wake by the sheer force of her enthusiasm. “You sit right there. Don’t move. I’ll get the tea and be right back.”

  So far, I hadn’t had to say a single word. I unhooked Mattie’s leash before settling onto a porch chair. He knew we were home, and he wouldn’t go far. He wandered off to check for squirrel activity under the trees. Mrs. D’Angelo was back in a flash. She’d perfected the art of getting the refreshments in record time before her victim, aka visitor, had time to recover and make their escape.

  She dropped the tray onto the table. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation. She usually brought something for Mattie, and today was no exception. Having no luck finding squirrels to play with, he wandered onto the porch and politely accepted a dog biscuit. He gobbled up the treat and then settled himself at the top of the stairs, his chin between his paws, watching the activity on the street with almost as much concentration as Mrs. D’Angelo herself.

  My landlady enjoyed spreading gossip as much as she did receiving it, so I didn’t have any trouble getting her to talk. “Alfredia Cunningham—you know Alfredia of course.” I didn’t, but that never mattered. “Dear Alfredia—too bad about that incident with the priest, but never mind that now—lives on Lakeside Drive. She says the police presence near her house last night was massive. Good thing nothing else went amiss last night in Rudolph, or there would have been no one to take the call. The police got there at the same time as an ambulance. The ambulance didn’t leave immediately, but more police continued to arrive, so Alfredia concluded someone was dead, and no need to rush them to the hospital. Then the detective herself showed up. Not long after that Alan Anderson arrived, but the officer guarding the gate wouldn’t let him drive onto the premises, so he had to park his truck and walk in. And then, much to her surprise, you appeared, coming out of the property. With Vicky Casey herself and Mark Grosse and a pack of dogs, and you all got in Alan’s truck and drove away.” She beamed at me. Two dogs didn’t constitute a pack, but I allowed her the literary license.

  “All true,” I said. “You realize, of course, I can’t discuss confidential police matters.”

  “Of course, of course.” She waved that trifle away. “My friend, whose daughter’s a clerk at the police station—I will reveal no names—said it was none other than Jim Cole who’d been murdered.”

  It came as no surprise to me to discover that Mrs. D’Angelo’s network of gossips had an inside source in the police station. Unlikely it would come as a surprise to Detective Simmonds or the chief himself. “I don’t think they’ve said if it was murder yet.”

  “They will. Soon enough. No one I’ve spoken to has any idea what Jim Cole would have been doing at that house last night.” She smiled at me, expecting me to fill in the missing details.

  Which I couldn’t even if I wanted to. “That,” I said, “is the mystery. Can you tell me anything about Cole House?”

  “It’s all such a tragedy. A once-impressive mansion reduced to little more than rubble. A once-great family suffering nothing but early death and heartbreak.” She paused momentarily, emitting a heavy sigh to ensure I was aware of the importance of what she was about to relate. Vicky and Mark’s house wasn’t little more than rubble, and Emmeline Cole had lived into her seventies, which I wouldn’t call an early death. I said nothing.

  “Jim Cole hasn’t visited that house in close to half a century, according to Alfredia, who would know. Over all the long years since Emmeline fled in the early hours one long-ago Christmas morning, never to return, he never once stopped by check up on the place. That was left to Emmeline’s lawyer. The elder Mr. Casey, and then young Tom when his father retired.”

  She settled back in her chair. “As for the house itself, nothing but tragedy upon tragedy.” The story she related was much the same as I’d heard from Dad. The deaths of Emmeline’s two sisters. The death of Emmeline’s fiancé. How the grieving Emmeline boarded up the house and moved away permanently, to live the life of a recluse, whereupon the house slowly fell into decay, becoming the stuff of legend at Rudolph High.

  “Emmeline’s father, Charles, had a brother didn’t he?” I asked. “Jim’s the son of this brother. Why didn’t they move into the house if Emmeline didn’t want it but didn’t want to sell it?”

  “Robert was the brother’s name. He left Rudolph several years before Emmeline did. He and his family, of which Jim was his only child. Offhand, I can’t recall where they went. People come and go all the time these days, don’t they? There was substantially more going than coming in the years before the town’s renewed prosperity. I’m delighted that some of the descendants of the old families are returning. Tired of the big cities, most likely, where everyone thinks they’re entitled to get involved in other people’s business.”

  Mrs. D’Angelo scowled in disapproval at the very idea. I choked on a mouthful of tea.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Fine. Perfectly fine. Tea went down the wrong way.”

  “If you’re sure. No one knows why Robert didn’t come back and take over the house. Perhaps he or his wife didn’t want to live in Rudolph. Maybe Emmeline didn’t want them to have it. The house belonged to her remember, even after she ceased to live there. Ties in that family in those years were not strong. Henry Cole married twice. Robert was considerably younger than the children by his first wife. Robert’s own son, Jim, was a good generation younger than his first cousin, Emmeline. They had little in common.”

  So far I’d learned nothing new. Perhaps Mrs. D’Angelo wasn’t going to be a font of knowledge after all. “What did Jim do for a living?”

  Her eyes gleamed, and my heart soared.

  “Very little.” She leaned across the table toward me. “Robert didn’t inherit the house on his father’s death, naturally the family home went to Charles, the elder son. But Henry was a wealthy man and Robert inherited a substantial sum.”

  “There were two daughters also, weren’t there? Are they still around?”

  “Henry did have two girls by his first wife. They, far as I know, married and moved away. I can try and find out more about them, if you’re interested?”

  “I am.”

  “Consider it done. Anyway, back to the point, Robert inherited money as well as interests in his father’s businesses. Charles got the house and control of the business. Robert cut his ties almost immediately with the family company. Sold all of his shares. The company lost money steadily almost from that point on. Meaning, in later years Robert was considerably better off than Charles. Robert used his proceeds to invest widely and wisely, whereas Charles was left with a too-big house and a struggling company. Charles died sometime in the 1960s. The first daughter predeceased him, and he left his wife, Ethel, and two surviving daughters without much more than the property. Ethel was content to remain in the house for the remainder of her years. She was from Muddle Harbor, so what would you expect?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what Muddle Harbor had to do with not selling the family home in Rudolph, but never mind that now. “Jim Cole?”

  “Oh yes. Robert was considerably well off, as I might have mentioned, so his only child, young Jim, didn’t have to do much of anything in the way of earning a living. I believe he has a law degree but he never practiced. That is to say he never practiced as a lawyer. He practices law a great deal.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jim spends much of his time instigating frivolous lawsuits. Now, I must confess Merry, some of this news came to me only recently. Karen Ogdensburg lives next door to Cindy Farrar and Cindy filled her in. Cindy and her father never had a relationship when she was a child, but she’s trying to build one now, but it’s not easy for her considering Jim’s proclivities. Was trying to build one, I suppose I should say. Poor girl. Nothing but tragedy in that family.”

  My brain hurt. I didn’t know Karen or Cindy or what they had to do with anything, and I was having trouble sorting out Mrs. D’Angelo’s maze of pronouns to figure out who had fallen out with whom. Cindy, I guessed, was Jim’s daughter. Marjorie had mentioned she lived in Rudolph. I decided to worry about the details later. Given a chance, Mrs. D’Angelo would go on a wild tangent that might take me just about anywhere. “Proclivities?”

  “He liked to sue people.”

  “Sue them? About what?”

  “Anything, Merry, anything and everything. The neighbor for cutting the adjoining hedge back too far. The city for knocking over his mailbox with the snowplow. The city offered to install a new mailbox, but he insisted on taking them to court because he, apparently, hurt his back trying to fix the aforementioned mailbox. Most recently she’s upset because he’s trying to have her friend’s dog put down because she showed her teeth to him.”

  Mattie’s head swiveled. He stared at Mrs. D’Angelo, and let out one disapproving bark.

  “Karen’s dog?” I asked.

  “Of course not, Merry. Do try to keep up, dear. Cindy’s friend’s dog. Cindy’s father wanted to take Cindy’s friend to court claiming the animal was vicious and needed to be destroyed.”

  Mattie growled.

  I leaned over and gave him a reassuring pat. “Cindy’s father? Just so I’m sure, you mean Jim?”

  “Of course I mean Jim. Who else are we talking about?”

  “So Cindy is Jim’s daughter. What’s Cindy’s last name?”

  “Farrar, as I just told you. Cindy is married to Kevin Farrar, that would be Joe and Marie’s youngest son. She works for the insurance broker in town and they have a house on Windrush Lane.”