“Cindy’s the insurance broker? Or is it Marie?”

  “Marie’s not in insurance. What put that idea in your head? She works at the hardware store. Alan is sure to know her.”

  I tried to focus on the most important detail. Jim Cole had a hobby of starting frivolous, mean-spirited, lawsuits. He spent the money he’d inherited going after the sort of people who didn’t have a lot of resources to fight back. He was prepared to take his ‘hobby’ to such lengths he’d fallen out with his own daughter over a threat to her friend. Any suit he might have attempted to bring against Vicky and Mark had no merit, we knew that from the beginning. But merit didn’t matter to Jim. He saw an opening to have some fun, not caring about the cost or about inconveniencing and even hurting innocent people.

  Jim Cole had very likely made himself a great many enemies over the years.

  “Are Jim and Cindy’s mother still married?” I asked.

  “Divorced. It was the talk of the town about twenty or so years ago. As you know Robert and his family left Rudolph when Jim was a young boy. They settled in the Syracuse area, nowhere near here, but Cole House itself is still a powerful presence in Rudolph and people are naturally interested in the family.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I believe it was Jean Lewis who has relatives in Syracuse and thus kept us up to date on the Cole family goings on. The divorce was extremely bitter. Jim dragged it out for ages, determined to drain his wife’s finances until she had to stop fighting. The lawyers on both sides made an absolute fortune. It was all extremely hard on Cindy, who was still a young girl at the time. They moved away after. To no one’s surprise. The former Mrs. Cole would not have wanted to risk running into Jim on the streets.” Mrs. D’Angelo sniffed in disapproval. “According to Jean, not one person in Syracuse was on Jim’s side. Nasty, nasty man, he was.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer toward me. “No one’s sorry he’s gone.”

  Chapter Twelve

  If Santa Claus himself had a hand in organizing the weather, it couldn’t have turned out better for the hospital committee’s garden tour and luncheon.

  Temperatures soared overnight to the mid-seventies, the wind dropped, and a bright yellow sun rose into a clear blue sky. It was early for summer clothes, but I decided to be a rebel and break with tradition. I selected a short-sleeved, knee-length green dress splashed with huge pink and red flowers, and paired it with bare legs and white sandals. After a winter spent in jeans and leggings, my legs were a rather shocking shade of fluorescent white, but I decided I’d do. My summer tan had to start somewhere.

  As I was going to be out most of the day, I left a disappointed Mattie at home when I headed for work. The lovely weather would bring out the tourists in hordes, and I needed to get the day at the store started before Jackie and Melissa took over at noon.

  “You won’t forget our deal, will you, Merry?” Jackie said as I waited by the shop door for Vicky to pull up out front.

  “What deal?”

  “You’re going to notify Kyle before you act on any leads.”

  “Oh, right, that deal.”

  “You’re investigating the murder?” Melissa said. “Is that safe? My mom says you and Vicky Casey are always getting yourself involved in things that are none of your business.”

  “She does, does she?”

  Melissa failed to notice the frown in my voice. “Yup. She wasn’t too sure if it was entirely safe for me to work here, but I told her no one had actually been murdered here in the store.”

  “That’s not true,” Jackie said. “Remember when that guy was killed right here while we were down at Santa’s boat parade?”

  “Oh yeah,” Melissa said. “And the time someone attacked Merry in the store. I guess Mom forgot about that.”

  I cleared my throat. “Perhaps best not to remind her. Spreading gossip about your employer and her business is not a good way to get a promising job reference.”

  “Huh?”

  “What she means is”—Jackie gave Melissa a broad wink—“what happens in Mrs. Claus’s stays in Mrs. Claus’s.”

  Melissa looked baffled for a moment, and then she winked in return. “Got it! You must have some stories, Jackie.”

  “Stories that cannot be repeated,” my assistant manager said, “because of the aforementioned rule.”

  I decided not to point out to Jackie that the only reason someone had wandered into the empty shop, through an open door in the middle of the day, was because Jackie’d slipped away from work to meet Kyle at the parade, thinking I’d never find out, as I was down by the waterfront in my role as Mrs. Claus.

  I had found out. Jackie managed to weasel out of that one, and she remained employed.

  Vicky’s cute little Miata pulled up, and I told my staff to call me if they ran into any problems.

  “We won’t,” Jackie said.

  * * *

  Most of the other garden tour attendees thought the same as I had. Ladies were in a riot of summer dresses or bright colorful blouses worn with white pants. The few men wore golf shirts and khaki trousers or lightweight suits. Vicky herself had paired her pink lock of hair, the color recently refreshed, with a blouse of a similar shade, worn over a short jean skirt that showed off her long legs to perfection.

  She’d called me last night to let me know she and Mark had been given permission to return to their house. I assumed that meant Mark had not been arrested, and I was pleased to hear it. Vicky had been interviewed after work by Detective Simmonds, but the detective had nothing new to report. I told her what I’d learned about Jim Cole. “Basically,” I concluded, “he worked hard at making enemies. He’s been away from Rudolph since he was a kid, but his daughter lives here now. That might have renewed his interest in the family house he seems not to have thought about for decades.”

  “Did you tell Simmonds this?”

  “No. She’ll find out easily enough. Attempted lawsuits are a matter of public record.”

  “Yes, but the public record doesn’t usually detail people’s emotions. Feelings can run high. That bit about Jim’s daughter and the friend’s dog is interesting. People can get mighty emotional over their pets. As you and I know.”

  “You’re right. I’ll give Simmonds a call in the morning. I once suggested she put Mrs. D’Angelo on the payroll. She thought I was joking.”

  Vicky had laughed.

  “You okay with taking this much time off work?” I asked her now. “Town might be busy today.”

  “I’m good, and we’re well stocked. I went in extra early this morning to get the baking and lunch prep started. I told Detective Simmonds yesterday my assistant can’t manage lunch without me—that was a lie. Janelle’s doing such a good job, I might start thinking about retiring.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No. Although if my book is a huge bestseller and I have to go on book tour and all that, it would be nice to know I can leave the bakery in capable hands.”

  “Speaking of the book, is your proposal ready for me to show to my publishing contacts?” I’d told Vicky what she needed to have ready before she and I started submitting: details of Vicky’s experience, why she was the best person to write this particular book, where it fit in the market, and what was different about it. A list of suggested recipes and/or chapter breakdowns. Sample recipes complete with photographs.

  “Afraid not—sorry. I want to get this book done, Merry. I’m excited about it. But finding the time is becoming a real challenge.”

  “Sleep,” I said, “is vastly overrated. Speaking of sleep, any mysterious disturbances at your place last night?”

  “Other than the usual gaggle of Rudolph gossips hanging over the gate, asking if they can be of help, and by the way, what really did happen here that night—no.”

  My mother broke away from a circle of friends when she saw Vicky’s car pull into the parking lot of the Yuletide Inn. She greeted us both with a kiss. “I’m so pleased you could come. You can send me an e-transfer for the tickets.” She walked us over to her friends. “Do you know everyone? Ladies, you all know my daughter, Merry, and Vicky Casey.”

  Everyone greeted us with smiles and hugs.

  Mom looked stunning in a calf-length pale green dress with a jagged hem. The bodice was adorned with white embroidery, and it was topped with a green jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves. Her long dark hair was wrapped behind her head, tucked beneath a fascinator in the same shade of green.

  “Here comes Grace now. She looks lovely.” Mom bustled away, and Russ Durham joined us. A large black Nikon camera hung around his neck.

  Vicky said, “I do not have a statement for the press.”

  “I was going to say hi you both look nice. Can I take your picture for the paper?”

  “You don’t want a picture of us,” I said. “You want Mom and Grace.”

  “I can do both.”

  “I’d rather not,” Vicky said, and clearly she meant it.

  He edged away from the group of women, and we followed as the circle closed in behind us.

  “I get it,” he said. “We’re here for the gardens, right?”

  “And lunch,” Vicky said. “Don’t forget lunch.”

  “I never forget lunch. I even paid for my own ticket. While we’re waiting for this show to begin, Vicky, you know I have to ask about what happened the other night at your place.”

  “Ask away.” She dropped the smile. “Doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

  “Diane Simmonds is being tight-lipped about the whole thing. People suggested I look into the history of what they’re still calling Cole House, and I did so. It’s mighty interesting.”

  “Leave us alone, Russell,” Vicky snapped.

  He lifted his hands. “You and Mark are my friends, and I value that friendship, but I have my job to do.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me the public have a right to know.”

  “They do,” he said.

  If there’s one thing my mom knows, it’s the importance of timing. She slipped into our little circle, her arm tucked into that of Grace Olsen.

  “Russell, darling,” Mom said, “so lovely to see you, and you’ve brought your camera. How nice. The gardens are obviously not at their best yet, but everyone’s dressed so nicely, and the day is gorgeous. Why don’t I introduce you to the hospital committee, and you can take some pictures? We need all the publicity you can get for us.” She released Grace and very firmly took hold of Russ’s arm. Propelled by the sheer force of her personality, not to mention the grip she had on him, he went with her.

  Poor Russ. It can’t be easy these days, when local newspapers are struggling to survive and so many losing the fight. Once upon a time, the Rudolph Gazette filled an entire two-story building in the center of the town’s main street. It would have employed a social page reporter with his or her own photographer, as well as a crime beat reporter. Other reporters would cover sports, business, and town politics—not to mention all the administrative staff needed to support them. Now, the paper had only Russ Durham, trying to do it all with the help of Kyle Lambert.

  “Nice to see you again, Vicky and Merry,” Grace Olsen said once Mom and Russ had moved off. Like my mother, Grace knew how to dress for any occasion. She was all in white—a loose, flowing white dress topped with a wide-brimmed white hat. The only touch of color was a deep red bow at the side of the hat. Her lipstick had been chosen to match the bow.

  Greetings over, Grace clapped her hands and raised her voice. “Ladies and gentlemen. Good afternoon, and welcome to the Yuletide Inn. I’m so excited about having you here and giving me the honor of hosting the hospital fundraising committee.” Grace and her husband, Jack, were the owners of the inn.

  Grace then introduced us to her head gardener, Frank Lowville, a short but beefy, red-faced man in dirt-stained overalls and muddy work boots. Frank was shy and spoke in a low voice, but once the tour began and he talked about the work he so clearly loved, he gained strength and confidence.

  The advertised topic was preparing your spring garden for summer beauty. Not something I have the least bit of interest in. Before long, Vicky and I fell back. At this time of year there wasn’t much to see but neatly raked lawns, turned-over flower beds, small green shoots poking their heads up out of the ground, and the first of the buds appearing on the trees and the holly bushes. The attendees appeared to be hanging onto Frank’s every word as he told them when to cut the lawn for the first time, when to rake up winter debris, and when to mulch the beds; what bushes to prune and when; how to determine if tiny shoots were weeds or much desired plants; how to apply fertilizer and what type to use where.

  “You should pay attention to this,” I said to Vicky.

  “Why?”

  “You have a big garden to look after now.”

  “All we need is to get the grass cut and the overgrowth trimmed back.”

  “Eventually you’ll want to do something nice with it. Did you see the auction list?”

  “I got it, but I didn’t read it.”

  “Frank’s offering a home consultation. You should bid on it.”

  “I might do that,” Vicky said. “The money goes to the hospital expansion, right?”

  “Yup. My mom’s donating tickets for a night at an opera at the Met next season. With her and Dad taking them to dinner before the show and sitting with the lucky winners in the theater. I should say Dad donated it. Mom’s not happy about potentially having to spend an entire evening with a couple she doesn’t care for. Dad reminded her it’s for the good of the hospital, and the honor of her hospitality will push the bidding up substantially.”

  “I’m sure that went some way toward mollifying her.”

  “It did. My dad knows, after all these years, how to talk Mom into doing something she doesn’t particularly want to do.”

  Finally the garden tour ended. Grace thanked Frank effusively, and he blushed and stammered his thanks. “Now,” Grace said, “I believe it’s time for lunch.”

  “Not a minute too soon,” a man shouted from the back of the crowd. Everyone laughed politely as his wife dug her elbow into his ribs.

  A private banquet room had been put aside for our use. Fresh flowers and an attractive arrangement of tiny chocolate Easter eggs graced every table. The tables were set with white linens, polished silver, and crystal glassware. We were seated with Mom and Grace; Sue-Anne Morrow, mayor of Rudolph; Roberta Conroy, chair of the hospital fundraising committee; and a couple of women representing the hospital. I accepted a glass of champagne to begin the luncheon, and Vicky declined because she was driving.

  “I’m surprised Cindy Farrar came,” Roberta said, unfurling her napkin.

  My ears pricked up. Vicky threw me a look. Her lips moved. “Isn’t that—?”

  I nodded.

  “She bought two tickets when they first went on sale,” one of the women said. “They’re not refundable, so she likely thought she might as well use them.”

  “It’s not as though she and her father were close,” replied Sue-Anne. “Rather the opposite I thought. Odious man. I trust you’ll not repeat that, ladies.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Roberta said.

  “Which one’s she?” I asked, and Roberta indicated a table at the back of the room, near the kitchen. “The woman in the blue dress.” Cindy was close to Vicky’s and my age, thin face, pert nose, chin-length blond hair. “The man next to her is her husband, Kevin.”

  “Did you know him?” Grace asked.

  “Jim Cole?” Sue-Anne said. “Never met the fellow in person, thank heavens. He lived in Syracuse, and the mayor of that town and I are quite good friends. Jim was constantly complaining about every little thing and threatening to sue over something that could be easily rectified if he’d just calm down about it. He did sue the town a couple of times, until finally the court got so tired of his complaints he was threatened with a nuisance charge.”

  “Wouldn’t that cost a lot of money?” a woman asked. “Lawyers don’t come cheap.”

  “The money didn’t matter to Jim,” Sue-Anne said. “As my friend explained it to me, some men have boats and some men have fancy cars. Jim Cole had lawyers on tap. It was nothing but a game to him. Although”—she glanced toward Cindy Farrar’s table—“he wasn’t quite so generous with his own family, and that caused some problems.” She smiled at the women listening to her. “More town secrets, not to be repeated.”

  Roberta turned to Vicky with a wide smile. “We were so thrilled to hear people will be living in Cole House once again. It’s nothing but a disgrace the way it’s been allowed to decay all these years. None other than my own grandmother was a housekeeper in that house. That would be in the 1930s, when the second Mrs. Charles Cole was in residence. My grandmother positively hated her, and she quit as soon as my grandfather landed a job at the shipyard.”

  “We heard Jim Cole died at that very house the other night.” A large-haired, large-bosomed woman leaned toward Vicky, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Do you have any idea what—”

  “I do not,” Vicky snapped. “I wasn’t there.” The woman’s eyes widened, and she pulled back.

  Fortunately, at that moment waitstaff began serving the soup, and the conversation moved on. The food was marvelous, but nothing other than I expected considering Mark Grosse had made it. At first I made polite conversation with my tablemates, aware that Vicky was uncharacteristically silent, clearly not wanting to get into a discussion of her house and the death of Jim Cole. I understood that. Natural curiously could sometimes turn to virulent interest. I turned my attention to my friend, and we spent the rest of the delicious meal discussing Vicky’s decorating plans for the house, in low voices.

  Finally the dessert dishes were cleared away, staff began serving coffee and tea, and Roberta began the afternoon’s program. She introduced Sue-Anne, who thanked us all for coming and launched into an overly long, excessively boring speech about the importance of the hospital to the town. I glanced over to see Vicky’s hands beneath the table and her fingers flying. She saw me watching and gave me a guilty grin. “Just checking the bakery. All under control.”