I slipped away.

  Mattie was sitting contentedly on the porch, watching the world go by. I untied the leash and told him he was a good dog. I couldn’t help but take a sideways glance at the Johannesen house. The lamp over the door was on, but all the internal lights were off and the drapes closed. Police crime scene tape was still up, hanging limp in the cold, still air. A man stood on the sidewalk, next to the large blue spruce. His back was to me as he watched the house. He was a big guy, but I couldn’t see much of him, as he was largely concealed by the snow-covered needles and heavy branches. He didn’t look toward me but abruptly walked quickly away, his hat pulled low. He passed under a streetlight and faded into the night.

  A curious neighbor, no doubt. People still gathered outside the house occasionally, perhaps hoping for renewed police activity or for the guilty party to return to the scene of the crime.

  I went home.

  This case might have nothing to do with me or people I cared about, but I found myself developing an interest in Raquel. Maybe because she was a Rudolph girl, like me, who had turned “bad,” unlike me, and I was curious about how that could have happened. Maybe because my sister had been friends with her. Most of all, perhaps, because I’d come across her body, and I wondered how her story had come to its end so prematurely and so tragically.

  I didn’t care about her family relationships, her cranky great-aunt, or the story of her great-uncle who lived in Muddle Harbor. But Mrs. D’Angelo delighted in the joy of the hunt. I might find her love of gossip excessive and often exasperating, but I was fond of her, and if digging into Raquel’s background would help her get herself back to normal, what harm could it do?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Any plans for tomorrow morning, honeybunch?” Dad asked me on Saturday shortly before closing.

  “I have lots of plans. Sleep in late, drink coffee, eat breakfast. Why are you asking?”

  “Big happenings in Muddle Harbor tomorrow. As it’s Sunday and you don’t open until noon, I thought you might enjoy coming with me to check it out.”

  “Why are you going to Muddle Harbor, and what are these big happenings?”

  I stood on the street outside the shop to take the call from Dad. The ever-changeable Upstate New York weather had changed again: the temperature dropping dramatically, snow starting to fall. We were, so the forecast said, in for a lot of the white stuff overnight. The wind was light, and the flakes drifted gently down, caught in the glow of the streetlights and the holiday decorations before coming to a rest on the scarves and hats of pedestrians or the roofs of cars. The lights in the window of Cranberry Coffee Bar went out. Across the street, a waiter at A Touch of Holly brought out a signboard listing the day’s specials. At this time of year, the day’s specials were always the eggnog martini, turkey with all the festive trimmings, and rum-soaked holiday pudding.

  “You know I’ve been consulting, undercover so to speak, with Janice Benedict on her mayoral campaign,” Dad said.

  “I do.”

  “The powers that be in that town are meeting tomorrow morning. Janice intends to present them with her carefully thought-out proposal.”

  “And that proposal is?”

  “All will be revealed tomorrow, honeybunch.”

  Over the holiday season, about the only time I get to actually relax is a few precious hours on a Sunday morning. I did not particularly want to go to the neighboring town of Muddle Harbor. I had little interest in what passes for political machinations in that town, but my dad and Janice had worked steadily and secretly over the summer and fall, laying their plans for a rapprochement between the two feuding communities. (In fairness, all the feuding emanated from their end.)

  “Will I be back in time for store opening?” I’d nipped out to take the call and was starting to freeze in my simple cardigan and the ballet flats I wear when on my feet all day.

  “Why don’t we drive separately in case I’m delayed?”

  “Okay. I have to admit, I’m interested in how Randy’s going to react to a threat to his authority.”

  “Randy Baumgartner has been mayor of that town for nigh on twenty years. Long in the post, not because he’s popular but because no one else wants the job. The only time he was challenged was fifteen years ago, when a previously unknown descendant of a local family wanted to turn Muddle Harbor into America’s Circus Town.”

  I laughed. Muddle Harbor’s residents were not known for their sense of humor.

  “Randy squeaked out a win with fifty point two percent of the vote. Tomorrow’s meeting is at the café. Nine o’clock. Before I go, any further news from the police about the recent incident?”

  I hopped up and down, trying to get some warm blood flowing into my feet. I rubbed my arm with my free hand. “Not from my end. George told me Detective Simmonds appeared to find his friend Bob’s story interesting indeed. You heard about that?”

  “I did. The police issued a statement, without mentioning any names, to elderly people, warning them to be aware of online scammers. The police might not have mentioned names, but George made sure everyone knew they were specifically referring to his friend. And, as for said friend, Bob’s not exactly hiding it. He’s rather proud of the fact that, according to him, he recognized a scam from the very beginning and played along. In order—again, according to him—to lure the guilty party into a trap.”

  “Did the police happen to ask Bob where he was on Saturday evening?”

  “They did. He was at his bridge club holiday party. He left around seven, not too late to drive to Rudolph, but he is an older man, and he doesn’t drive on the highway at night because of his cataracts. According to him.”

  “Which might or might not be true. Have they dug up any other gentlemen friends of Raquel?”

  “If they have, that information has not been shared with me. All I’ve been telling you, I got from George and Bob.”

  “I’d ask if any unfamiliar older men have been seen around town recently, particularly in the vicinity of a specific section of Broad Street, but unfortunately, Rudolph in mid-December is full of unfamiliar people.”

  “Commonly called tourists,” Dad said. “And yes, some of them are divorced or widowed men accompanying their families on vacation.”

  “Doesn’t have to be a single man who made so-called friends with Raquel. I wouldn’t be surprised if plenty of married men think they’re pulling one over on their wives.”

  Dad chuckled. “Not thinking of anyone in particular, I hope, honeybunch?”

  “No, Dad, I am not. The police have been around to talk to Mrs. D’Angelo a couple of times, but she tells me she can’t remember anything more.” I let out a puff of air and watched the mist form in front of my face. I wiggled my toes to ensure they were still operational.

  “How’s she doing?” Dad asked.

  “Okay, I think. She seems to enjoy sparring with her sister, and she’s once again assumed her rightful position as the processing center of all gossip in Upstate New York. Not only is she processing the gossip like some mega computer system, but she herself is the actual center of attention this time.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I might admit, if only to you, I find Mabel’s insatiable need for gossip to be a mite tiring at times, but it did worry me when she seemed to have lost interest for a while there.”

  “I haven’t seen Detective Simmonds for a couple of days,” I said. “Which I take to mean that she and her investigation have moved beyond the town limits of Rudolph.”

  “Which is most certainly a good thing. See you tomorrow, honeybunch.” Dad hung up.

  I decided I’d have time to make one more phone call before I permanently froze into a good enough ice sculpture to be erected next to the bandstand, and I made a quick call. Couldn’t go to Muddle Harbor without reinforcements.

  “Up to a trip to the Heart of Darkness tomorrow morning?” I asked.

  “If you mean Muddle Harbor, no,” Vicky said. “If you mean someplace else that’s known by that sobriquet, sure.”

  “Great. Muddle Harbor it is. I’ll pick you up at the bakery at quarter to nine.”

  * * *

  Like Rudolph, Muddle Harbor in the early and mid-twentieth century had been a bustling, thriving center of Great Lakes shipping. But whereas Rudolph had been able to reinvent itself in the twenty-first century as a tourist destination, Muddle Harbor settled into a slow, and then rapid, decline. They could have used their proximity to Rudolph to take advantage of overflow activities and accommodations, but they (largely under the influence of the eternally lazy perennial mayor Randy Baumgartner) stubbornly refused to accept any dependency on what they thought of as their bitter rival. One attempt after another to revitalize the town had failed, and finally, last spring, Janice Benedict realized that if anyone was ever going to do something about it, it had to be her.

  She called my dad, a former mayor of Rudolph, for advice.

  I’d have thought two weeks before Christmas was not a good time to announce a mayoral run, but the Muddites tend to do things their way. For once, it would be nice to openly visit Muddle Harbor, not to sneak in attempting to track down a murderer while trying (and failing) not to be too obvious about it.

  I closed the shop and headed home, well bundled up in coat, scarf, boots, and gloves. The snow was falling heavier now, and not many people were on the streets. Traffic moved slowly down Jingle Bell Lane, windshield wipers swishing, headlights illuminating the fat flakes.

  Mattie trotted contentedly at my side. Like the rest of his kind, Mattie had been bred for the snow and the cold. Winter was his happy place.

  I hadn’t seen Alan for days, and I missed him. I reminded myself that I could hardly complain at his lack of attention, considering I’d asked him to make more stock for my store. The holiday season might be the “holidays” in America’s year-round Christmas destination, but it was not a vacation time for us.

  “Right, Mattie?” I asked.

  He lifted his head, eyed me, and woofed. I took that to be agreement.

  The lights were on in the downstairs rooms of my house. I hadn’t spoken to Mrs. D’Angelo since Wednesday. My dad had popped in yesterday to visit her, and he reported that she seemed in good spirits. Mostly back to her normal self, as she barely had time to talk to him between juggling incoming and outgoing phone calls.

  The ringing of the doorbell had scarcely faded away before Mrs. D’Angelo threw open the door. She wore the pink dressing gown and fluffy pink mules I’d seen when George and I had been in the house searching for her. Her earbuds were in her ears, and her phone peeked out of the breast pocket of the gown. The sparkly pink case had not been returned to her.

  “Merry! Just the person I was hoping to see. I have a report ready for you.”

  “A report?”

  “Come in.” She grabbed my arm and yanked it so hard I stumbled over the threshold. Mattie followed. I kicked snow off my boots and gave Mattie a worried look. “Is Iris still here?”

  “Gone. Left this morning. Thank goodness. I won’t say it wasn’t good of her to come, but she can be a strain to deal with. Tea, dear? Or something stronger? It is after six.”

  “I won’t stay, thank you. I wanted to check on how you’re doing.”

  “Fine. Right as rain.” Something twisted behind the cheerful expression, but she brushed it off. I wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. She’d experienced an ordeal, one that could have ended very badly. The memory had to be constantly on her mind. But she smiled at me and said, “I won’t keep you, then. Obviously, you’re here for my report.”

  “Report?” I repeated.

  “About the Torrone family. No telling, is there, how children can turn out, even in the best families. Beth and Richard, who no one ever called Rick or Rich, were always perfectly respectable people. From what everyone says, their two sons are doing fine in life. One of them is even a doctor now. Imagine that! But that Raquel.” She shook her head. “Never anything but trouble.”

  Whenever I get my information from Mrs. D’Angelo, I have to remind myself to add a bucketload of salt. In the circles in which she moved, the more spectacular the gossip, the more it was worth. And thus the more prestige it gave the presenter of the gossip. Truth was sometimes a secondary consideration. If not tertiary.

  “Beth and Richard, the parents, have arrived in town. The police are still holding their daughter’s body, but that shouldn’t be for much longer. So sad. They’re staying at the Yuletide. You know how hard it can be to get a hotel room in Rudolph at this time of year, Merry, but they were lucky to call immediately following a cancellation. They hadn’t had any contact with Raquel for several years, but she was still their daughter. So sad,” she repeated.

  And it was.

  “In other news, they’re selling the house.”

  “The house? What house?”

  Mrs. D’Angelo pointed over my shoulder. “That house, of course. Dorothy Johannesen’s house. They don’t want to be bothered with a rental property anymore, never mind the tragedy they’ll associate with it for the rest of their lives.”

  Police tape was still wrapped around the driveway, the path to the backyard, and the steps to the front door.

  “When the police have finished with it, of course,” Mrs. D’Angelo said. “I hope the fact that someone died there doesn’t affect the selling price. Many of the old houses like that one, not to mention this one, have seen a lot of death in their time. Sure you won’t have a drink, dear?”

  “No, thanks. How do you know it’s for sale?”

  “It’s not for sale yet, but it soon will be. Marlene Jones has a good chance of being chosen to be the realtor. She’s done well for herself in the months since she managed to unload, I mean sell, Cole House to Vicky Casey and Chef Mark. And then double the commission when Vicky and Mark sold it so soon after moving in.”

  “I’m glad to see you back on your feet,” I said. “If you’re having any … difficulties dealing with what happened to you, you know you can ask for help. Professional help, I mean.”

  She beamed at me. “I have absolutely no idea to what you are referring, Merry. Oh, a call’s coming in. I have to take this.”

  I gave Mattie a light tap on the head, and he followed me out the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We didn’t get far.

  The door to Mrs. D’Angelo’s house shut behind us. Mattie and I had only gone a few steps before a car pulled up outside the house across the street.

  Mattie yipped with delight, and sure enough, a moment later Detective Diane Simmonds got out. She saw us watching and lifted a hand in greeting. A man I didn’t recognize emerged from the passenger side. He was tall, slightly overweight, dressed in jeans, a heavily worn coat, and much-used boots. His gray hair was cut short; his cheeks red and plump. Deep, dark circles lay under his eyes, and a network of lines radiated from the edges of his mouth. Cool gray eyes watched me, and he did not smile.

  Considering Simmonds’s wave to be an invitation, we crossed the street. Mattie, of course, didn’t need an invitation. His eyes were bright, his ears up, his tail thumping.

  “Merry. Matterhorn,” Simmonds said. “Good evening.” She put her hand lightly on the top of the dog’s head. He just about fainted with joy.

  I glanced over the roof of the car toward the unsmiling man. “Detective Frank Lopez, NYPD,” Simmonds said to me. “He’s following up on the Torrone murder. Detective, this is Merry Wilkinson. I told you about her involvement.”

  Lopez nodded at me, but he said nothing, and he did not smile.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I lied. I indicated the house. “Sources tell me this place is going to be put up for sale soon as the tape comes down.”

  “It is,” Simmonds said. “We’re pretty much finished here. If there are no new developments, we’ll most likely take the tape down on Monday and let the owners have access. I offered to give Detective Lopez here a look before that happens. I’ve asked you before, but I will again. You never saw the man Mrs. D’Angelo reported as coming and going?”

  “Never. All I saw were tire tracks in the snow, in and out of the garage. But that means nothing. I don’t spend my days at the front window with a pair of binoculars.”

  She allowed a grin to touch the edges of her mouth. “Not the first time I’ve considered putting Mabel D’Angelo on the payroll.”

  “I’ve heard,” Lopez said in the broadest of broad Bronx accents, “people who live in small towns don’t always know when to mind their own business.”

  “I would have thought that would be of benefit to the police in situations such as this,” I replied.

  “Sometimes. Until they try to intervene in things that are none of their business.”

  “Merry has been of help to me in the past, Frank,” Simmonds said quickly. “I value her input.”

  That came as news to me. Lopez might not have snorted. Then again, he might have kept it quiet.

  “But,” she continued, “the point is valid. I sense we’re attracting attention simply by standing here.”

  I could practically feel the force of Mrs. D’Angelo’s binoculars drilling into my back. I didn’t think my landlady could lip-read, but nothing would have surprised me.

  “We’ll go around the back,” Simmonds said. “Matterhorn, you may come.”

  Mattie leapt to his feet. If he’d been slightly more agile, he would have danced on his tiptoes before settling down to walk in a stately manner at her side, head up, back straight.

  “Big dog,” Lopez said. “You’ve got him well trained.”

  I decided not to mention that he didn’t act like that around me.

  A lock had been put on the gate to the back garden. Simmonds punched in the numbers and pushed the gate open. “Another couple of inches of snow, and we won’t need the lock to keep this shut,” she said.

  She took a few steps into the yard and then stopped. Mattie dropped to a sit. Lopez and I also stopped. Although we didn’t sit.