“A temporary girlfriend. She didn’t last. Not once he finally realized what a gold digger she was. Jim was not short of funds, Detective.” Trish sniffed in disapproval. “It brings the worst out in some women.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  My suspect list, not that I have a suspect list, was growing—and growing quickly.

  Diane Simmonds and Trish Dawson went to the police station, Trish spewing poison all the way. As they walked off I heard her describing this “girlfriend” to the detective: short, too thin to be healthy, surgically enhanced bosom, probably had some work done on her face too—for all the good it did.

  Jim Cole had a great deal of money, and he enjoyed spending it pitting people against one another and against him in court. He must have made plenty of enemies over the years.

  Which should mean Mark was in the clear. But Simmonds had strongly hinted such was not the case.

  Jim Cole might have enough enemies to put on a Santa Claus parade, but he had been killed at Mark and Vicky’s house, and found by Mark after Mark had been alone searching for him.

  Had one of those enemies followed Jim to Cole House, found him snooping around, killed him, and run away?

  That’s what I believed. How to prove it was another matter entirely.

  “It’s five thirty, Merry,” Jackie said when I came into Mrs. Claus’s. “I told Melissa she could leave at five, but you owe me half an hour overtime.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “You can’t expect me to pick up the slack all the time. I might have had plans, you know.”

  “I know. I am sorry, Jackie, but if the police want to talk to me, I can’t tell them this isn’t a good time.”

  She sighed mightily. “I suppose not. We all have to do our civic duty, don’t we?”

  “That’s the spirit,” I said.

  She went into the back for her bag and then bade me a cheery good night.

  My phone had buzzed with an incoming text while I’d been with Detective Simmonds and Trish Dawson. I took it out now to check the message.

  Alan: Plenty done today. Free for dinner?

  Me:

  Alan: Pick U up at 7?

  Me:

  Me: Do not get into conversation with Mrs. D’A.

  Alan: How do I avoid that?

  Me:

  * * *

  I took a back route home, tiptoeing across our rear neighbor’s yard and slipping through the loose fence boards between the properties. A dash across the lawn got me to the door to the apartments, and I ran upstairs as fast as I could. I made it without being stopped and burst into my apartment with a gasp of relief.

  Mrs. D’Angelo was sure to have heard about the events at the auction, and I did not want to be waylaid. She’d also likely know I’d been talking to Detective Simmonds on the street about an hour ago, and would want to hear all the details regarding that.

  Alan and Ranger arrived promptly at seven. While the dogs greeted one another, he said, “Mrs. D. was on the sidewalk when I pulled up, but she was talking to someone, so I was able to park the truck and make a run for it.”

  “We’ll have to leave by the back way,” I said.

  “You have a back way?”

  “A secret entrance in case it’s needed.”

  “You lead a surprisingly interesting life for a small-town girl, Merry Wilkinson.”

  “Don’t I wish I didn’t.”

  We told the dogs to guard the house, slipped through the fence, and walked into town.

  Over dinner at A Touch of Holly, I filled Alan in on the day’s developments. He agreed with my reasoning about Jim Cole and his numerous enemies, but as far as he was concerned, that was all the more reason for me to keep out of it.

  “You’ve put yourself in danger before when trying to help the police, Merry.”

  “All I’m doing in this case is listening. I don’t even have to ask any questions. People tell other people stuff in my hearing. I can’t help that, can I?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if I’m so unobtrusive, people don’t even see me.”

  He grinned. “Unobtrusive isn’t the word I’d use. People trust you, Merry. They instinctively know you’re a good person, so they are not on guard around you.”

  “I doubt that very much, but thank you.”

  * * *

  On Sunday the store doesn’t open until noon, so Alan and I enjoyed a long walk with the dogs, followed by a leisurely breakfast of bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese. Eventually Alan and Ranger left, and Mattie and I got ready for work. As I did most mornings, before leaving I had a quick glance at the store email account to see if I needed to attend to anything right away.

  I’d received a notice from the Rudolph police. I opened it quickly and saw, with a feeling of relief, that the message had been sent to all the businesses on Jingle Bell Lane, not just me.

  The relief didn’t last long. The purpose of the email was to inform us there had been an attempted break-in on the street last night, at Victoria’s Bake Shoppe. It went on to say no damage had been done, apparently nothing had been stolen, and no one harmed. We were reminded to check our own security arrangements and notify the police if we saw anything out of order.

  I called Vicky.

  When she answered, I could hear the buzz of her busy bakery in the background. Someone called for the sugar, and someone else asked if the blueberry muffins would soon be ready.

  “Not a good time,” Vicky said to me.

  “I’ll be quick. I heard the news. About last night. All okay?”

  “Hold on a sec. Janelle, see to those muffins. I’ll be right back.”

  The background noise died as Vicky moved into a quiet corner. “No harm done. I got an alert from the security company around midnight. The alarm on the back door went off. By the time they arrived and the police had been called, whoever it was had gone. Nothing damaged, nothing seems to have been stolen. I’ve always figured we’re pretty safe here. I can see the entrance to the police station out my window.”

  “Someone looking to make trouble, maybe?”

  “Maybe. They scarpered when the alarm went off and they realized the police would be here as soon as they finished their coffee and dusted donut crumbs off their pants.”

  “You need to get the lock changed.”

  “Already done, although our perpetrator doesn’t seem to have gotten it open. I did not need to be woken up and have to come into town in the middle of the night, but it couldn’t be helped. I gotta run, Merry. The Sunday brunch crowd is out in full force today, and we can barely keep up.”

  “One quick thing—you don’t suppose this has anything to do with what happened at your house, do you?”

  “You mean Jim Cole and the strange noises? No. These things happen, even in Rudolph. Troublemakers. Petty thieves. Chancers looking for a phone or an iPad left unattended. That’s why we need alarms and a security company, right? And inconvenient midnight phone calls.”

  “Right. I’ll check my own alarms when I get to the store.”

  “Hold on! I’m on the phone,” Vicky called out to someone in the bakery. “Sorry, Merry—like I said, gotta run.” She disconnected the call.

  If Vicky wasn’t worried about an attempted break-in, I told myself I needn’t worry either.

  My determination to let it go didn’t last long. Not worrying is not in my nature. According to the police’s email, no other business had been attacked (if it could be called an attack) last night. Only Vicky’s bakery. It was possible the miscreants were a bunch of hungry teenagers on the hunt for after-party treats. Possible, but I wouldn’t have expected them to slip silently away into the night. If they were locals, they would have known how close the bakery is to the police station. Then again, teenage boys don’t always think straight when they’re famished.

  Last night, Alan and I managed to get in and out of my apartment without being stopped by Mrs. D’Angelo. This morning my luck held. She was nowhere to be seen when I left home shortly before noon. I even took a moment to admire the tulip bed in the center of the lawn. The stalks were reaching toward the sun, leaves spreading, buds still closed tightly enough that the color wasn’t visible, but soon they’d make a brilliant, cheerful display.

  Melissa wasn’t working today, and Jackie was scheduled to come in at one for a half day. The shop was satisfyingly busy almost from the moment I unlocked the doors.

  Shortly before three, the tide of customers dropped off. I gave my back a good stretch and said, “I haven’t had lunch yet. I’m going to go out and get something. Do you want anything?”

  “Where you going?” Jackie asked.

  “Probably the bakery. They close at three, so I might get a discount on remainders.”

  “Ham and Swiss on rye, if they have it. Otherwise, whatever. But only if it’s half price. Unless you’re paying?” Jackie looked at me from under her lashes. “Are you?”

  “If I must,” I said.

  “Then I’ll have a piece of gingerbread to go with it. And an iced tea. Extra-large.”

  Grumbling, but reminding myself of some of the horror stories I heard about staff from other business owners, I headed out the door.

  At five to three, only a few people were in line for takeout. The bread bins behind the counter were empty, and a thin scattering of premade sandwiches and desserts remained in the display cases. A new employee, whose name I didn’t know, ferried used dishes into the kitchen. One table was still occupied. I recognized the young woman who’d been in here the other day, looking for a job. Her iPad was open in front of her, next to a plate containing a half-eaten fruit tart, an empty cupcake wrapper, and a torn muffin. As I watched, she peeled the tart pastry apart with her fingers and studied it. She wiped her fingers on a napkin and typed on her iPad.

  “Is Vicky in?” I asked Marjorie, who was serving customers from behind the counter.

  “Vicky! Merry’s here!”

  Vicky came out of the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She started when she saw the young woman with the iPad and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Good afternoon, Brittany. I didn’t realize you were here. Again. Everything okay?”

  Brittany lifted one hand while she kept typing with the other.

  “Is it all to your satisfaction?”

  She didn’t look up. “Yup. Thanks.”

  “I find a touch of arsenic in the pastry dough gives it a nice crunch.”

  That got Brittany’s attention. She looked up. “Arsenic? What’s that?”

  “She’s kidding,” Marjorie said. “Pay her no attention.” She gave Vicky a warning look, and Vicky shrugged.

  “We’re closing in a few minutes,” Marjorie said.

  “Okay. I’m done here anyway.” Brittany closed her iPad and began collecting her things.

  “How was today?” I said to Vicky.

  She half turned so her back was to Brittany. “An excellent day. We have a lot of orders for ready-made meals for Easter dinner next week—ham and scalloped potatoes and the like—so that’ll keep us busy. That plus pies and cakes for people who don’t want to make their own company desserts. Right, Aunt Marjorie?”

  Marjorie handed a customer his drink and said, “Right, because busier is what we need around here.”

  “Never complain about being busy,” the customer said.

  “If you can’t manage with the staff you have,” Brittany said, “I’m still interested in working here. I can help you with the baking. I make a mean red velvet cake. Everyone says it’s the best they’ve ever had.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Vicky said. “Thanks for your interest.”

  The last customer held the door open for Brittany, and when it had shut behind them, Vicky let out a long sigh.

  “What was that about?” I asked. “Arsenic?”

  “That Brittany’s starting to become a pest,” Vicky said. “Every time I turn around, she’s there. At least this time she didn’t try to barge into the kitchen.”

  “Only because I intercepted her,” Marjorie said. “You’d better get used to it, Vicky. When your cookbook becomes a bestseller, which it will, baking groupies will be falling all over themselves for your attention.”

  “Is there such a thing as baking groupies?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Marjorie said. “With the success of programs like the Great British Baking Show. That Paul Hollywood’s a genuine star now. It helps”—she sighed happily—“that he has the most amazing blue eyes.”

  “I also have blue eyes.” Vicky batted her lashes. “Maybe I can become the Upstate New York version of Paul Hollywood. Perhaps I should change my name to Victoria Broadway. Brittany isn’t any sort of a groupie. Meaning she’s not interested in me. She’s interested in my baking, and she’s trying to deconstruct my recipes.”

  “Is that a problem?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Not really. At least she pays for the food she buys, even if she doesn’t eat most of it.” She nodded toward the table where Brittany had been sitting. “Most of my baking’s pretty basic. Old favorites I’ve given a bit of a twist to. Like my gingerbread, with the super special secret ingredient known only to me. The full recipe of which is kept in my bank vault under lock and key.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course not. It’s in the folder marked ‘Super Special Secret Recipes,’ open on the counter, and on my computer. And, eventually it will be not only in my cookbook, but I’m hoping for it to be the cover photograph. What I’m saying is, Brittany’s not going to learn much, if anything, by deconstructing my pastry. She’d be better off trying things on her own. Without even tasting it, I can tell you her red velvet cake is likely straight out of a 1960s cookbook. There’s a lot more to baking than following the recipe exactly and measuring ingredients. Talent and heart have a big part to play. When I interviewed her, she said she’s intending to write a cookbook. Nothing wrong with that, and nothing wrong with trying to learn how others do it, as long as she doesn’t interfere with my business and unless she tries to recreate my recipes for her book. Enough of her. What brings you here?”

  “Lunch. What else?”

  The new assistant came out of the back. “What would you like me to do now, Vicky?”

  “Soon as the last table’s free, you can begin the end-of-the-day routine, Taylor.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to overstay our welcome. We’re leaving now.” Four women I regularly see around town hurried to gather purses and shopping bags.

  “I didn’t mean—” Vicky began.

  “As you can see, we’re done. Just having a nice long chat.”

  “We’re trying to avoid going home and thinking about what to make for dinner.”

  “We have several pies in the freezer,” Marjorie said. “Fully cooked and needing only to be heated. Your choice of turkey, chicken, or curried vegetable.”

  “That would be nice for a change. I’ll try the chicken.”

  Marjorie rang up the charge while Taylor fetched the pie.

  The customers left happy, one of them clutching the box containing a frozen chicken pie.

  “For a start,” Marjorie said to Taylor, “stack the chairs on the tables, and start washing the floor.”

  Taylor went into the back for cleaning equipment, and I asked Vicky, “How are things at the house? Any more noises at night and the like?”

  “I’ve heard nothing more, and neither has Mark. Thank goodness for that.”

  “So it definitely was Jim Cole creeping around.”

  “Probably, but not necessarily. Someone else could have been causing trouble, and they were frightened off by what happened.”

  “If that’s the case, we can definitely eliminate any ghosts or spirits. They’re unlikely to be scared away by a death on the premises and police activity.”

  Vicky jerked her head, indicating for me to follow, and led the way to a back corner. She kept her voice down. “That’s one positive thing. As for the other … Simmonds called Mark again last night. She had questions about Kevin Farrar’s accusation.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised she heard about that.”

  “Mark told her what he thought of Kevin’s accusation. In fairness, she told him she’d spoken to Kevin, and he admitted he didn’t have anything but, in his words, ‘a gut feeling’ about Mark. Anyway, enough of that. What can we get you?”

  “A couple of sandwiches, please. And gingerbread if you have any left.”

  “Marjorie, any of today’s gingerbread left for Jackie O’Reilly?”

  “All out,” Marjorie said.

  “How’d you know it’s for Jackie?” I asked.

  “You spoil that girl,” Vicky said. “If I didn’t have my own place to worry about, I’d come and work for you. The things she gets away with.”

  “What sort of things?”

  Vicky just laughed and went into the kitchen. Behind me, the chimes over the door tinkled.

  “We’re closing in a few minutes,” Marjorie said, “but I can get you something for take-out.”

  “Thanks. A coffee’d be good. Black, no sugar.”

  I went to the counter to get my order. The woman who’d come in was shorter than my five foot four despite the fact that she was wearing pumps with substantial heels. She was in her mid-thirties, at a guess. Her jeans were so formfitting I wondered if she would be able to sit down, and a cropped, tight pink T-shirt with a big red heart drawn in sparkles strained over her chest, which, considering how thin she was otherwise, unlikely had anything to do with genetics.

  Marjorie poured the coffee into a take-out cup and snapped on a lid. The woman handed her a five-dollar bill, and Marjorie made change.

  I picked up my own brown bag and the cup containing Jackie’s drink and turned to leave. The door opened again, the chimes sounded again, and Trish Dawson marched in. I could tell by the look on her face she was not here for coffee and a cookie.

  The younger woman turned around. A sly grin appeared on her face. “Well, well. Look who’s here. Are you following me?”

  “I can’t come in for a cup of coffee?” Trish said.