At first glance the back of the house appeared to be undisturbed. Snow covered the lawn and the flower beds; the deck was bare and empty. But crime scene tape was strung across the steps leading to the deck and the sliding back doors. A sheet of plywood had been hammered across the shattered glass. I thought about what I’d found in that house, and I couldn’t help but shiver despite my warm coat and other winter accessories. Mrs. D’Angelo had had a lucky escape indeed.

  “Anything else I can help you with, Merry?” Simmonds asked. Clearly I wasn’t going to be allowed into the house for one last look.

  “The man, the one who was seen coming and going. You haven’t located him?”

  “No. The house was rented under a false ID, but he’ll be found soon enough. Plenty of fingerprints in that house, meaning a lot of work to identify them. They’re still being matched and analyzed. We’ve been in contact with the previous tenants and taken their prints for elimination, but they had six kids and all those kids had friends constantly coming and going, and the parents entertained often. The equipment downstairs was wiped clean. Nice, careful job of it too. Of interest, not many of Raquel’s prints are to be found in this house. None upstairs. A few in the kitchen, door handle of the fridge, the microwave buttons. Not much else.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “She hadn’t spent much time in the house.”

  “The real Scott McNamara of NYC,” Lopez said, “is an elderly gentleman who has trouble remembering what day of the week it is. The address on the ID provided when the house was rented is a retirement home in Queens. A 2015 Toyota Corolla with the license plate this so-called McNamara drove was found abandoned in a mall parking lot in Ogdensburg, New York. Owner is listed as none other than Raquel Torrone. Who, records show, bought it little over a month ago, only a couple of days before she leased the SUV found in the garage of this house.”

  “Mrs. D’Angelo, and others we’ve spoken to on this street, say the SUV was used on what was presumably moving-in day,” Simmonds said. “Subsequently, the only vehicle they saw was the Toyota. Until, that is, Raquel showed up the day she died and put the SUV in the garage. No one saw both cars at the house at the same time, and half of the garage was full of empty boxes and a selection of hardware tools.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “Meaning it would appear that Raquel and this man spent little or no time in the house together. As for him, we’ve spoken to a few people who say they might have seen him in the grocery store or the liquor store or getting gas, but the description they provide is so vague, and so varying, as to be useless.”

  “What about friends and associates of Raquel herself?” I asked. “Any leads there?”

  “My people are onto that,” Lopez said. “Torrone’s crossed our radar before. Low-level stuff mostly, but enough to keep us interested. Anyone who might have been doing business with her has gone to ground.”

  “You know she was running a romance scam on elderly men?” Simmonds asked me.

  “Men plural? I know about George Mann’s friend Bob Gravel.”

  “Him and a few others,” Lopez said. “One man’s daughter laid a complaint with the NYPD. It didn’t go far. The daughter’s largely estranged from her father, and the old man insists the woman he met online was nothing other than a down-on-her-luck friend in need of the occasional handout. He wouldn’t press charges or cooperate with the investigating detective. But it did attract the attention of our fraud squad, and a file’s open.”

  “Detective Lopez and his colleagues were able to have a look at Raquel’s apartment when we notified them of her death and the circumstances,” Simmonds said. “They found her laptop in the apartment, the one she used to run her scam. Chat groups where she found her marks and a record of plenty of FaceTime calls to men who turned out to be single and lonely. Even when the authorities contacted these men and told them she was a con artist, most of them refused to accept it. They want to know when the funeral will be held so they can pay their respects.”

  “Bob said he regarded any money he sent her as the price of entertainment,” I said.

  This time Lopez did let out an audible snort. Mattie sat between Simmonds and me, staring approvingly at the other woman. My dog never looked at me like that. I tried not to take it personally.

  “Far as we can tell,” Lopez said, “he didn’t give her more than he could afford. Some of these guys did. Some of them have angry relatives to deal with.”

  “Might one of these angry relatives have taken steps to stop the scam?” I asked.

  “It’s possible,” Lopez said. “Then again, judging by what Detective Simmonds found in this house, along with Torrone’s body, she was into other activities as well.”

  “As for the counterfeiting operation,” Simmonds said, “we’ve heard not a peep. Which is what I’d expect. Anyone involved should know to head for the hills and cut their losses once a murder investigation opens up.”

  “So you’re not looking at anyone in Rudolph,” I said. “That’s good.”

  “We’re looking at everyone, Merry,” Simmonds said. “As a matter of interest, Raquel and her confederate were not exactly skilled counterfeiters. We found some fake money in boxes in the cellar, but not much, so I suspect he grabbed most of it when he cleaned up and ran. The sort of bills that could be handed to a bored kid working the night shift at a 7-Eleven but wouldn’t pass the most causal glance of a bank clerk.”

  “Seems hardly worth bothering about,” I said. “All that trouble, not to mention risk, to get a free Coke or packet of cigarettes.”

  “There are other ways of passing bad money,” Lopez said. “Whether they were into that or not is still to be determined. Enough of this pleasant chitchat. If we need any more from you, Detective Simmonds knows where to find you.”

  “That she does,” I said. “Come on, Mattie, time to go home. Mattie. Mattie!”

  “Go with Merry, Matterhorn,” Simmonds said.

  And he did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As planned, at quarter to nine Sunday morning, I pulled up to the back door of Victoria’s Bake Shoppe and tooted the horn.

  Vicky soon emerged, wrapping a scarf around her neck and pulling on her gloves. “Tell me again why I agreed to do this?” she grumbled as she fastened her seat belt.

  “Because you’re a good and loyal friend and faithful companion.”

  “Makes me sound like your dog.”

  “Not to mention you’re curious about the goings-on in the Heart of Darkness, which, if my dad’s plan comes to fruition, will no longer be known as such.”

  “Whatever.”

  I gave her a look. “You changed your hair color.”

  “Like it?”

  I hesitated. Vicky kept her thick black hair cut super short. Easier to maintain that way, she always said. But, because she had to satisfy her flair for the dramatic, she kept one lock long enough to fall across her forehead and curl down her right cheek. That lock was always brightly colored. Today it was pure white. “It gives you a … witchy appearance. More appropriate for Halloween, maybe.”

  She pouted. “Tell me about it. I decided on red and green stripes to match the season. Something went wrong, and it came out looking like something Sandbanks threw up after he’d been eating grass.” I attempted to brush aside that mental image.

  “Aunt Marjorie told me not to try to cover it up with more color but bleach it out. So I did. Now I’m stuck with this for Christmas.”

  This early on a snow-covered Sunday morning, no traffic was moving on Jingle Bell Lane. We’d gotten almost a foot of snow last night, but the plows had been out, and the main streets were clear. The sun was rising in a sky of soft winter blue, and it was predicted to be a sunny day. Nothing nicer than a bright sun and blue sky shining on fields of freshly fallen snow. Trees were draped in white, and the holiday lights on the bandstand shone softly from beneath a coating of flakes.

  As we headed out of Rudolph, I filled Vicky in on what Dad expected to happen this morning. “Considering it was me who started the idea of the two towns reconciling in the first place, I figured I’d like to see what goes down.”

  “ ‘Me’? Meaning you and only you? Must I remind you, I’ve always been with you when you go to Muddle Harbor. I played my own part in promoting peace and harmony. It seems awfully early for a town council meeting. Nine o’clock on a Sunday?”

  “A breakfast meeting, Dad said. Early so the hardworking Muddites can then get on with their hardworking day.”

  “Got it. Where’s the meeting?”

  “At the café, of course.”

  Vicky snorted. “Saints preserve us. Dare I hope they’ve updated the menu since our last visit?”

  “They haven’t updated the menu since the Eisenhower administration. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a good thing. Nothing I love more than a gigantic, old-fashioned American diner breakfast.”

  Vicky shuddered. Rather than attempting to make friendly with the owner of the café—peace and harmony indeed—Vicky didn’t do much other than mock the high-calorie, high-fat, high-sugar (high-taste!) meals served there.

  Her disdain never prevented her from stealing a slice of my bacon, though. Sometimes two slices.

  A few minutes on the road, and we were passing out of Rudolph. On our right, the waters of the lake were still open, although the shoreline was rimmed with frost. To the left, farmers’ fields stretched to the horizon, dormant under their blanket of white. The ice and snow on the trees lining the road twinkled in the light of the rising sun. I’d been expecting the road between Muddle Harbor and Rudolph not to have been plowed yet, but I was pleasantly surprised. That stretch of road was so rarely traveled no one bothered to do much other than the minimum needed to maintain it.

  I wondered if my dad had put in a word with the state highway people. If his and Janice’s plan was successful, tourists wouldn’t want to travel between the towns on a road not maintained since the horse-and-buggy era.

  “Want a puppy?” Vicky said, apropos of absolutely nothing.

  “What?”

  “Do you want a puppy? Mattie would love a little brother or sister, don’t you think?”

  “Mattie would like nothing less. Why are you asking?”

  “My cousin’s dog is expecting. Once again, she inadvertently got loose in the company of a boy dog without suitable papers.”

  Vicky’s cousin bred Saint Bernards, and it was from him I’d obtained Mattie. The cousin’s dog was a kennel club champion, and she was expected to produce more kennel club winners. Unfortunately, said cousin tended not to keep as close an eye on his prize dog as he should when she was in the mood for canine romance.

  The product of one such illicit liaison was Matterhorn and his littermates. Vicky had set about finding good homes for them all, and one of those homes had been mine.

  “What type of mutt did she hook up with this time?” I asked.

  “A standard poodle.”

  “The mind boggles.”

  “The poodle does have suitable papers. Just not suitable for mating with a Westminster-winning Saint Bernard.”

  “The mind continues to boggle. Why don’t you take one of the puppies? Sandbanks needs company in his old age.”

  “He does not. His old heart couldn’t take the excitement.”

  Come to think of it, when homes were being sought for Mattie and his siblings several years ago, Vicky said she couldn’t take one because Sandbanks was too old to have a puppy around.

  I was prevented from inquiring further as the speed limit changed as we reached Muddle Harbor, and I slowed to drive into town.

  Main Street was as cheerful as ever. Meaning not. A few scraggly green-and-red Christmas lights graced shop fronts, and tattered wreathes with faded ribbons hung on doors, but many of those stores were boarded up, the signs over the doors or in the windows dirty and fading. The streets were empty and unplowed, forcing me to take care as I concentrated on driving in the ruts made by previously passing vehicles.

  “Has anyone ever suggested using Muddle Harbor as a movie set?” Vicky said. “Perfect for a postapocalyptic tale of the supernatural.”

  “They might have,” I said, “but the actors would refuse to stay here.”

  The only signs of life on the street were in front of the Muddle Harbor Café, the town’s hot spot and center of all activity. Cars and trucks were parked outside. That stretch of the sidewalk had been cleared of snow, the windows were trimmed with twinkling lights, a big wreath made from fresh greenery and adorned with a bright-red bow hung on the door, and lights from inside shone through clear windows.

  I recognized my dad’s car and parked next to it. “Now, remember. We’re here to make friends. To support Janice, without appearing to be taking sides in whatever goes down. We’re not here to talk.”

  “I like to talk.”

  “Yes, Vicky, I know.”

  “Okay. Whatever you say. I take it that this time we’re not here to accuse anyone of murder. That’ll be a change.”

  “I can see no connection between Muddle Harbor and Raquel’s death or Mrs. D’Angelo’s kidnapping. Raquel’s great-aunt’s brother lived in Muddle Harbor, but if you go back far enough, most people have relatives on either side of the divide. Sort of like Germany when it was separated by the Berlin Wall.”

  I opened my door and was about to step out when I saw someone I hadn’t expected to see here. Kyle Lambert, hurrying down the sidewalk toward the café. His big black Nikon camera hung around his neck.

  He passed in front of my car, and I jumped out and said, “Kyle. Hi. What brings you here?”

  “Oh, Merry. Hi, Vicky.” He grinned and touched the camera. “I’m with the Muddle Harbor Chronicle now. Staff photographer.”

  “Muddle Harbor has a newspaper?” Vicky said. “Does that mean they have news? Other than the obituary pages, that is.”

  “Important meeting today in the café,” Kyle said. “I’m taking photos for the paper. As outsiders, you two might not be allowed in.”

  “We’re with the band,” Vicky said.

  “Huh?”

  “Have you quit the Rudolph Gazette?” I asked. His camera looked familiar. It also looked like a very expensive one.

  “In these days of increasing online content, declining revenue for local newspapers, and the general decimation of the profession of journalism,” Kyle recited, the lines obviously memorized, “a good photojournalist is required to seek jobs where he can find them.”

  “Does Russ know you’re using the Gazette’s camera to do work for the Chronicle?”

  Kyle’s eyes widened. He put his hands over the camera and glanced around, as though fearing Russ Durham was watching from behind a lamppost. “Uh … uh … No. Not this one. It looks the same. But it’s not.” He ran into the Muddle Harbor Café, and Vicky and I followed.

  The place was the same as every time we’d been here, except for the number of people. The big round table that normally occupied the center of the room had been pulled to the front and extra chairs placed around it. Every one of those chairs was taken. A handful of townspeople occupied the booths lining the walls, lingering over their Sunday breakfast and coffee, but most people seemed to be here for the meeting. Chairs had been pulled away from the tables and arranged in two lines facing the counter. Groups of people stood around, clutching coffee cups, waiting for the festivities to begin. The waitstaff were busy clearing the tables of those who’d come for breakfast before staying for the meeting.

  My dad sat alone at a booth, a cup of coffee in front of him. I couldn’t help but notice a few suspicious glances being thrown his way. I also couldn’t help but notice more suspicious glances being thrown at Vicky and me.

  The café didn’t just resemble an old-fashioned diner; it was an old-fashioned diner. Black-and-white-checked floor, stools covered in red plastic pulled up to the chrome-trimmed Formica counter. Serving hatch cut in the back wall to the kitchen, pies and cakes under glass domes, advertising posters of men on horseback smoking cigarettes on the walls. The scent of coffee and grease. Even the apron-clad, sensible-shoe-wearing waitress who called everyone hon.

  “Thanks for coming, hon.” Janice Benedict greeted us from behind the counter. “Grab a stool. Can I get you your usual?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Okay if we sit with my dad?”

  “Sure. One order of poached eggs, soft, bacon, and sausages. Rye toast. Potatoes done to the point of very crispy,” Janice called through the serving hatch. My order placed, she turned to Vicky. “What can we get you, hon? Water and a handful of oats?”

  Vicky cleared her throat. “As I’ve been up for hours and I had breakfast at work, I’ll have … a slice of that carrot cake, please. And … a cup of … coffee.”

  Janice grinned.

  “Nice of you to make the effort to be polite,” I said to Vicky as we crossed the floor to Dad’s booth. “Not that having carrot cake counts as an effort in anyone else’s books.”

  “It’s past nine,” a man yelled. “Let’s get this show on the road. I’ve places to be and got things to do.”

  “Must we?” another man said. “My wife expects us to go to her mother’s for lunch, and I told her I might be delayed.”

  “You wish, Fred,” a woman called.

  Kyle walked around the room, ostentatiously displaying his camera, tilting his head, holding his hands up as though composing a picture frame. A few people straightened their shoulders, stretched their necks, and preened, but he moved on, leaving them disappointed.

  “What do you expect to happen?” I whispered to my dad as Vicky and I slid into the booth.

  “This is the monthly meeting of the town council,” Dad said. “Randy assumes it will progress as usual, meaning everyone will argue about everything, nothing will be decided, Janice will serve pie, and then they’ll adjourn until next month to do it all again.”

  “Why do they have council meetings in a restaurant?” Vicky asked. “Why not town hall?”