My mother, I finally realized to my considerable shock, was investigating.

  “What an odd name,” Mom said. “Something to do with computers, dear?”

  “I don’t know many of the details, other than it invests in cryptocurrency. I have to confess, Aline,” Cindy continued, “I’m starting to get worried. Kevin keeps telling me it’s tough getting a business off the ground, and I’m trying to understand—really I am. But it’s been a long time, and nothing much seems to be happening. He’s still spending more than he’s earning. I don’t see how we can start a family if we’re dependent on my income alone.”

  “Things are so difficult for young people these days.” Mom positively oozed sympathy.

  “Kevin wanted me to talk to my dad’s cousin, Emmeline. I told him that would be a waste of time. Emmeline owned some property in Rudolph, but other than that she had scarcely enough income to care for herself. That’s what Dad told me, anyway.”

  “Did you visit Emmeline regularly?”

  “Never met her. I heard she was a total recluse, and she and my dad never had anything to do with each other. In her will, she left everything she had to a charity for homeless women. I didn’t expect to get anything, but Dad wanted the Rudolph house. He was absolutely furious to hear he was completely cut out. Didn’t get so much as a memento of the family.” Cindy chuckled, pleased at the idea of her father being disappointed about something. “He wouldn’t have wanted any memento, but that was never the point.”

  “Aline! Aline Wilkinson. I’m so glad you’re still here.” An elderly couple approached us, all smiles. “The summer Christmas concerts are still a while away, but shouldn’t the children’s rehearsals be starting soon? Our grandchildren are eager to participate again this year.”

  “I’d better be going,” Cindy said. “Kevin will be wondering where I am. It was sooooo nice meeting you properly, Aline. How about lunch one day next week?”

  “Lunch?”

  “We can go to a restaurant in town. I’d love to finish our chat.”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar. I have a very busy schedule. You understand.”

  “Totally. Why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll call tomorrow to set something up?”

  Mom turned to the new arrivals. “I’m so glad you caught me. I intend to send out notices next week. I have some ideas for our program, and I can’t wait to hear the parents’ thoughts. And the grandparents’ as well, of course.”

  As if my mother ever changed her concert program on the whim of anyone’s parents.

  Not yet realizing she’d been dismissed, Cindy said, “Sounds important. I’ll leave you to it then. Bye!”

  She walked away, a decided spring to her step.

  Mom bid her friends good afternoon and said to us, “Come along, girls. Don’t dawdle.” When we were out of earshot, she said, “I trust you got all that. I do not want to have to engage in empty chitchat with that woman again.”

  “Not empty,” I said.

  “Nor chitchat,” Vicky said. “Did you do that on purpose, Aline?”

  “You mean question the fool of a girl in the guise of being a concerned friend? Of course I did. You two seem to need some help in this matter.”

  “I’m not investigating,” I said.

  “If you are not, you should be. In full view of a roomful of Rudolph’s most influential citizens, including the mayor, not to mention Mark’s employer, that odious Kevin Farrar accused Mark of killing someone. Following that incident, Grace felt compelled to tell Mark to keep himself out of sight. I chastised her for her failure to support the man largely responsible for the success of her restaurant and banqueting facilities, and she, not so politely, told me she’d do what she had to do to maintain the reputation of the inn.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” Vicky said. “From what Cindy told us, Kevin Farrar didn’t get on with his father-in-law. Why would he be so upset at the man’s death to cause a public scene and have himself thrown out of the hotel?”

  “Because,” I said, “Kevin Farrar himself could be considered a logical suspect in the murder. Cindy too, despite all her ‘gee whiz’ thrill at meeting the great Aline Steiner. They didn’t like Jim Cole. He made Cindy’s childhood a misery and damaged her mother’s health; he embarrassed her in front of her neighbors. He dangled the promise of money, attached to considerable conditions, over Kevin. Did Kevin and/or Cindy decide to eliminate the embarrassment and get the money in a more direct way? Such as through Jim’s will?”

  “I don’t suppose you know what’s in Jim Cole’s will?” Mom asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I can ask my dad to find out,” Vicky said. “He’s still the lawyer for Emmeline’s estate, and Jim was threatening to sue the estate, so he’ll know Jim’s lawyer.” She laughed. “Homeless women rather than unappreciative relatives. Good for Emmeline.”

  “It might be worth knowing, but it doesn’t really matter,” I said. “If Kevin and Cindy had an expectation of inheriting, that’s good enough. Cindy is, as far as we know, Jim’s only child.”

  “I’m thinking of giving up voice teaching,” Mom said as we approached her car.

  That came as a shock to me. “You are? Whatever for? What would you do instead?”

  “I can hang up a shingle. ‘A. Steiner Wilkinson. Private Investigator.’”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “That took a lot longer than I expected,” Vicky said. “I’d intended to ditch you and let you catch a ride with your mom and get back to the bakery before closing. After what happened with Kevin Farrar, Mark needed some calming down. Which, for Mark, means grinding spices and chopping vegetables, so I stayed to give him a hand. And then … I didn’t think your mom had it in her. That was some mighty skillful questioning.”

  “Detective Simmonds told me not to do any investigating. It’s not my fault if people repeat pertinent points in my hearing, now is it?”

  “Not at all. It would be a failure of your civic duty not to report what you heard.”

  “Is Mark okay?”

  “He will be. He’s angrier at Grace for not standing up for him than he is at Kevin Farrar. The bartender came into the kitchen and told him Kevin had had a couple of drinks while the garden tour was going on. Grace’s security people shouldn’t have allowed him to drive home.”

  “A shot of courage maybe?” I asked. “If Kevin intended to accuse Mark, to throw suspicion off himself or for some other reason, did he need to fortify himself first? No need to drive past your place to drop me off. I can walk.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s a block and a half, Vicky. Yes, I’m sure. I’ll give Simmonds a call and tell her what we learned, and then I want to see what I can find out about Kevin and Cindy Farrar, particularly as regards this business of Kevin’s.”

  “The game is afoot,” Vicky said as she pulled her sporty little car into the alley behind the bakery.

  I went into the bakery with Vicky, thinking that because I’d be getting back to the store later than expected, some treats for Jackie and Melissa would go a long way toward mollifying them. Jackie, anyway. I didn’t yet know about Melissa, but Jackie could always be bribed.

  * * *

  Detective Simmonds wasn’t as wildly excited about my new information as I’d hoped. Then again, maybe she was keeping her enthusiasm under control.

  When I got back to Mrs. Claus’s, bearing a bakery box of today’s leftovers, I called Simmonds to tell her what Cindy Farrar had told us. Told my mother, rather, in my hearing.

  The detective said she was in the area and would drop in rather than talk on the phone. About a minute and a half later, she came into the store, carrying a takeout cup from Cranberry Coffee Bar next door. Reluctantly, Jackie held out the box I’d just presented her with, and after some deliberation Simmonds accepted a chocolate pecan tart.

  “Let’s take a walk,” the detective said to me. “Matterhorn could use the stretch if you’ve been out all afternoon.”

  “I left him at home today. Mrs. D’Angelo will let him out for a romp a couple of times.”

  “We can still walk.”

  “Sorry,” I said to Jackie and Melissa. “Be right back.”

  “Does she ever do any actual work here?” Melissa asked Jackie as the door swung shut behind us.

  We strolled along Jingle Bell Lane while Simmonds sipped her coffee and munched on her tart, and I related where I’d spent the day and what I’d overheard.

  “Some of this I knew,” she said when I’d finished. “But I was not aware of the degree of animosity Kevin and Cindy had toward Jim Cole. When I spoke to her, I already knew about the incident with the dog. She laughed it off, saying her father was a kidder and it would come to nothing. I wasn’t so sure, considering Jim Cole’s record of suing people over very little, but I couldn’t see a standoff over a barking dog being a reason for patricide. She told me she and her father had a distant relationship when she was growing up, but said nothing about the animosity between her parents. As for her husband, I have checked, and Kevin Farrar’s in a financially perilous situation. Neither of them told me he’d asked Jim for money.”

  “Is that suspicious?” I asked.

  “Not usually. People rarely come right out and tell me they didn’t like the deceased or had long-standing disagreements with them. I would have found out about the legal troubles between her parents soon enough, but not the matter of a loan for Kevin’s business. Not if they didn’t want to tell me.”

  We walked on. “When Kevin Farrar accused Mark of killing Jim Cole, he didn’t say why he believed Mark would have done such a thing. I believe the reason he made the accusation was to distract attention from himself.”

  I peeked at Simmonds, checking her expression for a clue to what she was thinking. “Is Kevin Farrar considered a suspect?”

  “Nice try, Merry, but you know I’m not going to tell you that. I will tell you Mark’s name came up when we initially questioned Cindy and Kevin. Kevin told us what we already knew: that a great many people didn’t like Jim. He had a way of making enemies.”

  “Mark’s no longer a suspect,” I said. “Good.”

  “Don’t make assumptions,” Simmonds said. “I thank you for the information, and I’ll ask you to keep me informed if you again happen to overhear something I might be interested in knowing. No one, however, has been ruled out of my investigation.”

  “Oh.”

  Up ahead, Candy Campbell, in uniform, was standing on a street corner, talking to a woman. Candy caught sight of us approaching and pointed. The woman headed our way at a rapid clip. She was in her late fifties, with dyed blond hair, face caked with an excessive amount of makeup. She wore a red blouse with the top buttons undone, shredded white jeans, and ankle boots with three-inch heels. Both ears had multiple piercings, and numerous bracelets danged at her wrists.

  “Detective Simmonds?” she asked.

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  “My name’s Trish Dawson, and I was on my way to the police station. I stopped that nice young officer to ask for directions, and I told her I need to speak to the detective in charge of the Jim Cole murder.” She smiled. A touch of red lipstick was stuck to her teeth, and she smelled very strongly of tobacco. “And here you are. What a coincidence.”

  Simmonds glanced past her to where Candy Campbell was watching us. Judging by the detective’s expression, Candy would be in for a good talking-to. She must have realized so, and she turned her head and slunk away.

  “I don’t conduct interviews on the street,” Simmonds said to Trish Dawson. “If you want to speak to me, please present yourself at the front desk at the station.”

  “No need. Now that I have you here, we can chat so much easier.” She noticed me at last and said, “Hello. Are you a detective also?”

  “Do you have information for me about the Jim Cole case?” Simmonds asked before I could get into an explanation of who I was.

  We stood in the center of the sidewalk while cars passed and pedestrians moved around us. I should excuse myself and get back to work. I didn’t know this woman, and I didn’t recall seeing her around before. She probably didn’t have anything useful to tell the police, just wanted to make herself seem important by wasting the detective’s time. But in case she did know something, I stayed where I was, glad at the chance to hear it too.

  “I was hoping you could tell me what’s going on.” Trish pulled a tissue out of her cavernous tote bag and dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve been away, visiting friends in Florida, and I only just heard the news. I came here as soon as I could. I’m Jim’s wife.”

  Simmonds’s expression didn’t change. “According to official records, Mr. Cole was not married at the time of his death.”

  Trish laughed lightly. “I should say his ex-wife. We’re divorced, officially, but we’re still very good friends.” She touched the tissue to her face again. “I should say we were good friends. Like I said, I only got here today. I tried calling his daughter, Cynthia something, but she hung up on me. Sad, isn’t it, when adult children continue to carry resentment over their parents’ disagreements for so many years?”

  Cindy had said something to my mom about her dad remarrying and then divorcing. She’d been totally dismissive of the matter, and Mom hadn’t asked further. Perhaps she should have.

  “Do you have information pertaining to Mr. Cole’s death?” Simmonds asked.

  “Not directly. Like I said, I was in Florida until yesterday. I came as soon as I heard.”

  “How did you hear?”

  “A friend in Syracuse—that’s where Jim and I lived when we were married—heard about it and called me.”

  I’m not exactly an expert on human emotions, but I am well aware we all experience grief in different ways. I searched Trish’s face for signs of such grief and didn’t see any. Her eyes were moist, but not red and puffy, and her makeup didn’t seem to be covering any residue of weeping.

  “When did you last see Mr. Cole?” Simmonds asked.

  We stood in the middle of the sidewalk, three rocks blocking the river of pedestrians, forcing them to flow around us. A few people gave us curious glances, but most simply carried on with their business.

  “I spend much of my time in Florida these days.” Trish pretended to think. “Winters in the north don’t agree with me. Must be, oh, about a year ago.”

  “Yet you claim you remained close after your divorce.”

  “We talked on the phone all the time.”

  “I am treating Mr. Cole’s death as suspicious.”

  “Yeah, I heard he was killed by some guy who’d moved into his house and refused to leave. Jim was going to have to sue him to get him out.”

  “His house?” I said, before remembering I was trying to pretend I wasn’t here.

  “Jim’s family owns this really big mansion in Rudolph. It’s been in his family, like, forever. Jim’s aunt died recently. Or was it a cousin? I’m not entirely sure, but she left the house to him. This guy she didn’t even know moved in before the will was even read, and he’s been claiming she left it to him. As if Jim’s aunt would let her grandfather’s house leave the family.” She turned to me. “Do you know the house? Is it nice?”

  “I know it. Grand old home. Big piece of property near the lake.”

  Greed glimmered in Trish’s eyes. So that, I thought, is why she’s here. Hoping she’d have a claim to Jim’s estate.

  “Do you know of any reason someone might have wanted Mr. Cole dead?” Simmonds asked. She hadn’t so much as glanced my way since we’d met Trish. She could have told Trish to come to the police station. She could have told me to get lost. But she hadn’t done either of those things. The good detective might feel compelled to tell me to keep out of a police investigation, but she was well aware that I’d been of help in the past. I’m a lifelong Rudolphite; Simmonds is not. Gossip flows in and out of Mrs. Claus’s and Victoria’s Bake Shoppe all day long; gossip stops at the door of the interview room at the police station. People tell me things they don’t tell the police, either because they don’t want to waste police time (no one ever minds wasting my time), they don’t think it’s important enough, or they don’t want to “get involved.” Simmonds was allowing me to listen in, I thought, with the hopes that I’d start digging up the dirt on Jim Cole and his ex-wife.

  Considering I’d never met the man, and Trish had never been to Rudolph before, I didn’t know how I was going to accomplish that.

  “Dear Jim could occasionally be difficult to get along with,” the ex-Mrs. Cole said in answer to Simmonds’s question. “He was a man of firm principals, and he believed in standing firm behind those principals. Some people didn’t like that.”

  I thought of Cindy’s neighbor’s dog. No principals involved there—just a desire to be mean.

  “It hurts me to admit it, but he occasionally made enemies. He didn’t get on at all well with his daughter, no matter how hard he tried. His first wife, the girl’s mother, turned her against him. It broke his heart, the poor man.” Trish’s eyes opened wide as though a thought had suddenly occurred to her. “I’ve just remembered something. The girl, Cynthia, recently moved to this very town, and he was eager to try to build the relationship he was never allowed to have with her when she was young. I hope her childhood bitterness didn’t get the better of her.”

  Was that ever a subtle way of turning suspicion onto Cindy. Not. I didn’t think Trish did subtle.

  “Let’s talk further at my office,” Simmonds said. “We can walk there. Ms. Wilkinson, thank you for your time.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Anytime. Always happy to help.”

  “Have you spoken to Louise Ferguson yet?” Trish asked.

  “I don’t recognize that name,” Simmonds said.

  “You’ll want to. I wouldn’t put it past her to have done it. The jealous … you know what I mean. She couldn’t accept that Jim realized he’d made a mistake, and he and I were making plans to get back together.”

  “This Louise is?” Simmons prompted.