I went around to the alley to find the same situation there. With a sigh, I pulled out my phone and called Diane Simmonds.

  “Merry,” she said in greeting. In the background someone shouted at the printer.

  “Detective. I’m at Mrs. Claus’s and—”

  “I trust you didn’t go inside.”

  “I did not. I’m standing in the alley. It’s cold out here. I’m calling to see if there are any developments. As in, when I can go inside my place of business, and more to the point, when can I open? It is the holiday season, you know, and I rely on making much of my yearly income—”

  “Yes, yes. I’m well aware of your situation, Merry. I can assure you I’ve heard the same from other business owners at that side of town. Not to mention the mayor, who took pains to remind me of the importance of the holiday season to the health of the town’s budget. A healthy town budget, she pointed out, means a healthy police budget.” Detective Simmonds did not sound happy this morning. I took that to mean she had not made an arrest overnight. “I’m going over the preliminary forensic results right now. If I don’t find anything that tells me otherwise, you can open tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You might want to come in early.”

  “Why?”

  “To clean up.” She didn’t bother to wish me a good day. She also hadn’t given me the chance to ask if there were any further developments.

  As I had several hours to kill before going to Alan’s, I headed back to Jingle Bell Lane and made for Victoria’s Bake Shoppe. I pushed open the door to be enveloped in the marvelous scents of fresh baking and good coffee. And the not so marvelous scent of wet wool drying. The place was full, every table taken, and a line waiting patiently at the takeout counter. The noise level was high as Marjorie, behind the cash, called out orders, diners chatted, cutlery clinked, and steam hissed from the industrial-sized espresso machines.

  I took my place in line and while I waited, I carefully avoided looking at the high shelf where, once again, the best-in-parade trophy was prominently displayed. The two best-in-parade trophies, as we have a parade in July also, to celebrate Santa coming to Rudolph for his annual vacation by the lake. Vicky and Victoria’s Bake Shoppe win the trophy almost every year. Mrs. Claus’s Treasures never wins. Vicky insists it has nothing to do with the fact that she provides hot chocolate and fresh pastries for the judges to enjoy while they wait in the cold or the rain for the parade to pass.

  This year I made the mistake of putting Alan’s dog, Ranger, on my float to accompany Mattie. As we passed the judges’ booth, on a flatbed pulled by George Mann’s World War Two–era tractor, a squirrel chose that moment to break for cover and ran down a tree trunk and bolted across the street. Ranger’s leash had been loosely looped around a cardboard pillar holding up the cardboard roof of the alpine rescue hut that was our theme this year. Mattie played the role of alpine rescue dog, complete with barrel tied around his neck. Let me just say that the chaos of Ranger jumping off the float, dragging the pillar behind him, the entire edifice collapsing, the children from my mom’s singing classes alternately screaming or laughing (and thus not singing for the judges), me in my Mrs. Claus getup leaping off the flatbed in pursuit of the dog, and my mom trying to get the children under some sort of control, did not present the display in its best light. And thus, once again, Vicky’s float emerged triumphant.

  She tried not to gloat. Much.

  Eventually it was my turn to be served. “One medium low-fat latte. One extra-large hot chocolate with as much whipped cream as allowed by law. One small blueberry muffin and one of the cinnamon and apple pastries, please. No, better make that two pastries.”

  “Having breakfast with your dad?” Marjorie, who’s Vicky’s aunt, asked.

  “His reputation precedes him,” I said.

  I took the treats to Mom and Dad’s house, hoping to find out if they knew of any further developments. Dad answered my knock on the kitchen door and gave me a welcoming grin. I held up the bag and the grin grew wider. “For me?”

  “The muffin’s mine.” I knew not to bring baked goods for my mother. She never touched coffee either. I stepped into the house. Mom was at the kitchen table, scrolling through her iPad and sipping on a foul-smelling mug of her specially made herbal tea, supposedly good for the throat.

  “You’re up early,” I said to her.

  “Busy day. The adult chorus will be here shortly to work on the opening number. Which most definitely needs some work. The problem, Merry, with amateur theater—one of the many problems—is that people have jobs to go to. Today’s Saturday, so this and tomorrow are the only days they can all get together outside of scheduled rehearsal times. The other problem with amateur theater is that a surprising number of them cannot sing. Not that that stops them from trying, bless their well-meaning little hearts.” She sighed mightily. “I do my best.”

  I put the drinks on the table. “Someone implied yesterday that you might have … taken steps so Paula wouldn’t spoil your reputation.”

  “If I cared about my musical reputation,” Mom said, “I wouldn’t have agreed to have anything to do with this thing in the first place. The very idea of A Christmas Carol as a musical is a travesty.” She glanced up and gave Dad a warm smile. “In my opinion, anyway. Nevertheless, somehow, I got talked into it for the sake of Rudolph.”

  Dad smiled back at her. My parents were an odd match, perhaps proving the old adage that opposites attract.

  His face turned serious when he looked at me. “Preposterous as the idea is, rumors such as that can focus police attention in directions they shouldn’t go.”

  I gave him a nod.

  Mom stood up. “Jackie O’Reilly, of all people, has asked to stay for a private lesson once the chorus practice has finished. Making silk purses out of sows’ ears comes to mind.” She left the kitchen, her iPad tucked under her arm.

  When she was out of earshot, I asked, “Did Diane Simmonds come back? To question Mom about that accusation, I mean?”

  Dad opened the bag and took out the pastries. He laid them on plates and we sat down. He took the lid off his hot chocolate and took a long drink. I sipped my latte and let him think. “She did not,” he said at last. “I can only hope Diane knows the idea’s as ridiculous as you and I do. If Jackie’s coming here for singing lessons, does that mean she’s no longer under suspicion?”

  “Unfortunately she’s still very much under suspicion. They don’t have enough to charge or hold her, that’s all. Tom Casey’s representing her.”

  “Good man, Tom. Excellent lawyer.”

  I picked at my muffin. “I tried to tell Jackie she has to stop crowing about getting to play Mrs. Cratchit. Aside from the fact that it’s in extremely bad taste, the chance to move up from understudy is the main reason she’s under suspicion in the first place. I don’t think she understands that she really is in trouble.”

  “You know I like Jackie a great deal, honeybunch, but she’s not always as in tune to currents swirling around her as perhaps she should be. In fairness, people can sometimes be willfully blind to things they’d prefer not to think about. If I was your mother, I’d launch into a tale of some soprano, or maybe a tenor, who was about to be sacked and refused to accept it. But I am not, so is anything else happening with you?”

  “On the good news front, I can open the store tomorrow. Should be able to open the store, that is, if nothing else comes up.”

  “Good to know. You don’t need the loss of income, and any town trying to promote itself as a family-friendly holiday destination doesn’t need crime scene tape strung across storefront doors and people scurrying past with eyes averted while muttering dark words.”

  “Sorta like the sidewalk in front of Scrooge and Marley must have been?”

  “Precisely,” Dad said. “Now, there’s an idea for the set design for the opening scene. Minus the crime scene tape.”

  We ate and drank in silence for a few minutes.

  “The thing is, Dad, someone killed Paula Monahan. Mom didn’t do it. Jackie didn’t do it. But someone did. I’ve been thinking it over.”

  “I didn’t doubt you would, honeybunch.”

  “I don’t know any of the other people involved well enough to know why one of them would want to kill her. It might not have had anything to do with the production. The woman had another life. She was a high school teacher. She had marriage problems. Her husband’s left her, but Simmonds says he has an alibi.”

  “Alibis can be faked.”

  “True, but I think Detective Simmonds is a good enough cop to break a fake one.”

  “The end of a marriage is often a dangerous time for women,” Dad said. “Is it possible the husband, Kevin is it, hired someone to do the deed? While he was establishing this alibi?”

  “I didn’t consider that, but it’s possible, I suppose. Lots of things are possible. How much does a hit man cost, do you think? Something Kevin Monahan could afford?”

  “I’m pleased to be able to tell you I have absolutely no idea what the going rate for a hit man is. I’d assume, as with most things, it varies by the quality and experience of the service provider. A professional with a good reputation, probably a lot. A drinking buddy who owes you a big favor—maybe not much at all.”

  “I’m wondering if it’s possible Paula might not have been the intended victim.”

  Dad studied me over the top of his mug. A trace of whipped cream graced his upper lip. “Go ahead.”

  “I only interacted with the players a couple of times, but from what I could see, almost everyone was angry at Catherine. Except for Dave, for what I assume are reasons of his own.”

  Dad nodded. “Your mother told me it is not a happy set. As we saw yesterday when they gathered here. Back to Catherine, what are you thinking?”

  “Paula and Catherine don’t look at all similar, but they are about the same height and weight. Same shade of hair color. Seen from the back, both of them in black winter coats? Catherine was going up and down the street with her flyers, so it was possible she’d return to Mrs. Claus’s at some time that afternoon. Did the killer get the wrong person?”

  “That might be something to mention to Diane. The Renshaws are new to Rudolph, and I don’t know much about them. Why don’t I—?”

  Dad broke off when his phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, glanced at the display, pulled a face, raised an eyebrow at me, mouthed “Ralph. Have to take it.” He answered and said, “Good morning, Ralph, how are—”

  A torrent of words poured down the line. I caught something about excessive expenditure, private ambition, out of line, and the looming threat of bankruptcy.

  “It’s Saturday, Ralph,” Dad said. “I’m relaxing with my daughter and enjoying a delicious baked treat from Vicky Casey’s place. Do we have to talk about this now?”

  “Yes!” came through loud and clear. “I’ve called an emergency meeting of the budget committee. My house. Half an hour.”

  Dad blinked and put the phone away. “Looks like I have to go out, honeybunch. Sue-Anne has an idea for promoting the theatrical production, and Ralph is … shall we say not entirely sure it’s a good one.”

  “Wendy told me about that this morning. Sue-Anne wants to put on a reception for the visiting bigwigs. Word got around fast.”

  “Did Wendy doubt it would? This is Rudolph after all.” Dad popped the last of his pastry into his mouth. “Thanks for this. As for what we were talking about, don’t get involved, Merry. Let Diane sort it out. It’s what she does. I trust she told you the same?”

  “She might have mentioned it in passing.”

  Chapter Nine

  I detoured home via Jingle Bell Lane, to once again check out the situation at my store. Yellow tape still in place. Passersby still eyeing the storefront warily. Margie Thatcher still throwing daggers at me through the dusty main window of the Nook. Kyle Lambert lounging against a parking meter, camera around his neck, idly checking his phone.

  I decided to take all that as good news. As long as the cops were not squealing to a halt on the sidewalk and pouring through my doors in search of fresh evidence, I should be able to open as planned.

  “Hi, Kyle,” I said. “Looks like not much is happening.”

  He shrugged. Kyle was a beanpole of a guy with a sunken chest, weak chin, and small eyes that regarded the world, and everyone in it, with suspicion. Upon prematurely leaving high school, he’d tried his hand as an artist. When that failed—totally and completely even in a town where his parents knew everyone, because he had not a speck of talent—he decided to take up photography with the help of a secondhand camera. In the meantime, he painted houses, filled in at the newspaper sometimes, and waited for his big break. Which, considering he was as lazy as he was untalented, wasn’t likely to ever happen. Not in a field that competitive. “Yeah. Pretty quiet. I was hoping for some activity, like something that would make a great picture. But … nothin’. Not even any cops keeping people back.”

  “How long are you planning to stand here?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, the police have got all they need and left.”

  His eyes moved to his phone, bored with my conversation. “Not much longer, I guess.”

  “Where’s Jackie?”

  “She’s gone for her singing lesson. ‘Cause of her bein’ in the play like, and now having a solo part. She’s staying at my place. We think it’s safer for her to be there, instead of alone at her place. Safer, in case the real killer comes after her next.”

  “But she was alone earlier?”

  He tore his eyes away from his phone. “Huh?”

  “Alone. Walking through the streets to go to her singing lesson. Earlier at your apartment. While you’re here, waiting for the Pulitzer-winning shot.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Do you think the killer knows where I live?”

  “I think maybe you should stop frightening Jackie, Kyle.” I tried to choose my words carefully. “It’s fine to be … concerned about her. But don’t go too overboard. She’ll be fine at her own place. The police will make an arrest soon.”

  A myriad of expressions crossed his face. Agreement with me, then uncertainty, followed by calculation as he tried to decide what was in his own best interests, and then a flash of concern as he finally thought about Jackie’s best interests, circling back to agreement. He nodded. “Yeah, I guess. You are going to pay her for the missed day, right? I told her it’d be the right thing to do.”

  My phone buzzed with a text. “Gotta take this,” I said to Kyle. “Have a nice day.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” He lifted his camera and snapped a picture of me as I turned to walk away. The yellow police tape stretched across the doors to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures would feature prominently in the photo, as would the store logo in the window. I did not want to ever see that picture in the pages of the Rudolph Gazette or, even worse, on Twitter.

  I checked the text. Vicky: Mark has a couple of sous-chefs off sick. Has to go in for dinner service tonight, so our date is off. Feel like pizza and bad movie at your place?

  Me: Sounds like a plan

  Vicky: I’ll decide on the movie. You order the pizza

  Me: 👍

  * * *

  Mattie and I headed for Alan’s shortly before noon. As we drove out of town, I told myself I was happy for the break. A whole day off, and in the runup to Christmas as well. Breakfast with Dad, lunch with Alan, dinner with Vicky. What a perfect day.

  So I told myself anyway.

  Alan lives about ten miles out of town, in a gorgeous nineteenth-century stone farmhouse situated at the end of a long lane, lined by ancient oaks and maples, now winter-bare. The house boasts three levels, a wide, welcoming wraparound porch, and miles of ornate gingerbread trim. The farm itself is long gone, the fields quickly reclaimed by woodland, and the lower level of the old red wooden barn converted to serve as Alan’s workshop.

  I parked next to the barn and opened the back door of the car. Mattie leapt out with as much enthusiasm as he ever shows. He loves Alan’s place, he loves Alan, and he loves all the marvelous scents in the woods surrounding the house. He doesn’t love Ranger quite so much, but he tolerates the smaller, and far more rambunctious, dog.

  Alan and Ranger came out of the house to meet us on the porch. At this time of year, the porch is stacked high with cords of good firewood in anticipation of the full strength of winter still to come. Ranger leapt up and down, yipping in an excess of excitement. He’s a Jack Russell and excess excitement is his entire nature. He sniffed my boots, ran in circles around my legs, and then headed toward Mattie for more greetings. Mattie woofed in warning; Ranger decided discretion was the better part of valor and he hurried to sniff at the wheels of my car. I climbed the steps, and Alan gave me a kiss and wrapped me in a hug.

  “Hard to believe,” he said with a laugh, “those two are the same species.”

  “Good thing they’re both males, or who knows what they might produce,” I said.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Yup.”

  Alan’s bulging backpack was waiting by the door. He put on his boots and coat and we called to the dogs and set off. It was bitterly cold, but the sun shone in a clear blue sky, and we were properly dressed for the weather. Alan had cleared some trails through the woods on his property, leading to a small stream tumbling north toward Lake Ontario. He and I walked slowly, holding mittened hands, enjoying the peace of the early winter woods. Almost all the leaves were gone now, the bare branches of the trees converted into sculptural silhouettes. Twigs, mulch, dying vegetation, and the residue of last night’s light snowfall crunched under our feet. Ranger ran ahead, checking out everything, running back to encourage us to walk faster, and then dashing off again. Squirrels headed for shelter and dead twigs snapped as he passed. Mattie lumbered happily along behind us, occasionally stopping to smell something not far off the path. Mattie and Ranger were roughly the same age. Mattie topped the scales at around a hundred and fifty pounds. Ranger might be twenty pounds soaking wet, immediately after a big meal.