“Say I buy that,” Vicky said. “I don’t, but never mind that now. They were having an affair. So what? She’s married, but he isn’t. He’s got nothing to lose by ending it. No need to go to extremes.”

  “True, but there’s a lot of emotion wrapped up in illicit relationships. Passion, pride, self-esteem. Guilt. He said he’s divorced, but is he? Maybe the divorce hasn’t gone through yet and he can’t afford to be caught out, but Catherine was getting more serious than he intended.”

  “All that’s speculation, Merry. You got nothin.’”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “I wonder if the Muddle Harbor Sunday supper crowd gathers at the café at five thirty for the early bird special. I saw it advertised. I bet they serve hot turkey and gravy on white Wonder Bread with canned peas on the side.”

  “I’ll never know,” I said.

  * * *

  As long as I was thinking about Catherine …

  Vicky dropped me at home and headed to the bakery to get back to her ovens. I saw no sign of Mrs. D’Angelo, for which I was grateful. My landlady had a way of getting me to confess to things I’d prefer not to. I suppose that’s why, in my dad’s and Alan’s opinion, she’d be a good recruit for the CIA or FBI.

  The shop opened at noon today. It was ten o’clock now, so I had a while to do some investigating before going to work. Not that I was investigating. Just being curious. I let Mattie have a short romp in the yard and then put on a fresh pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table with my iPad.

  Catherine and Bruce Renshaw were the founders of Home Central Furnishings, a big-box store with branches all over the Northeast. In my previous life, I’d been a prop stylist and then a design editor at Jennifer’s Lifestyle, one of the country’s top monthly magazines. We’d never worked with Home Central—their line was too mass-produced and budget for us—but I knew of them.

  I started with the business news and learned that Catherine and Bruce retired two years ago. Retirement had not been voluntary. They’d been kicked out by the majority of the board after several years of steadily declining revenue. I read back in time to learn there’d been dissent in the business for a long time. Bruce and Catherine openly clashed over the direction they wanted the company to take. Bruce was a traditionalist: big spaces with four walls stuffed full of display rooms and stock. Catherine was an early proponent of online shopping and rapid delivery. By the time Bruce and his faction realized online was the future of retail, it was too late for Home Central—other companies had captured most of the market share. Several of their stores closed over the past ten years and others downsized. Revenue continued to steadily decrease, along with the value of the company’s stock.

  Catherine, I thought, would not have been pleased. She’d had a vision and wanted to expand, but Bruce resisted. From what I could find, they were still shareholders in the company, but their shares would be worth a fraction of what they’d been at the company’s height.

  I then turned to the more gossipy sections of the internet. Seven years ago, Catherine had thrown open her Westchester home for the benefit of a charity Christmas tour. The pictures reporting on the event showed expansive grounds, huge old trees and well-trimmed bushes, a large pool (closed for the winter) complete with pool house. Inside, a roaring fire in a massive fireplace, walls of windows, shelves of books, good art, a gleaming kitchen of chrome, marble, and glass. The article mentioned that the Renshaws enjoyed summer vacations at their beach house in Sag Harbor.

  Estates in Westchester and beach houses in Sag Harbor weren’t cheap. They were, in fact, a considerable leap up from a substantial, yet comparatively modest, house in Rudolph, New York, no matter that it was lakeside.

  More pictures of the couple, her resplendent in gown and jewels, him in a tuxedo, attending galas for the New York Philharmonic or the opening of a special show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In one photo, the beaming couple posed with the cast of the biggest show to hit Broadway in ages. I found nothing along those lines more recent than three years ago.

  The Renshaws had clearly come down in the world. Did they mind? They were still comfortably off. Catherine dressed impeccably; she donated lavishly to the theater company. On the other hand, the Rudolph Community Theater Players was a far cry from opening night at the Philharmonic or backstage at a talk-of-the-town Broadway play.

  As for her spending on the production, I wondered if that was a point of contention between the couple. Possibly, if she was spending more than they could afford. I thought back to the picnic. Bruce Renshaw had seemed happy enough in his wife’s world, moving in her shadow. Would he have been able to pretend to be enjoying himself if he was resenting what the picnic was costing him?

  Possibly. If he didn’t want people gossiping about him.

  On the other hand, maybe he was okay with it. I’m computer literate, but no more than most people my age who run their own business. Meaning I have no hacking skills. I’d love to have a peek at the Renshaw’s finances, but that wasn’t going to happen. They’d started Home Central with one store and built it into an empire by themselves. I could find no evidence that they’d inherited family money or had help opening the first store. They still had shares in Home Central along with some probable investment income, but I assumed that wasn’t adequate to maintain their Westchester and Sag Harbor lifestyle.

  If Bruce Renshaw was watching his wife spending more than they could afford on her hobby?

  Yes, that might be a motive for murder.

  I reminded myself Paula had died, not Catherine, and I was only speculating that Paula had been mistaken for the other woman. If Bruce Renshaw had wanted to murder his wife, surely he’d have had a better opportunity to do it.

  But had he?

  The first person the police look at in a murder is the partner of the deceased. Had Bruce been biding his time, waiting for the opportunity to get rid of Catherine? He’d been with her when she came into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, but they might have separated when they left. Had he later thought he’d seen her returning to my shop, and flown into a rage, thinking she was about to spend more money that he could ill afford? Had he followed her, and realizing the shop was empty, struck without taking care to be sure he had the right woman?

  How likely was it he’d mistake someone else for his wife? Catherine and Paula were wearing similar but not identical coats the day in question. Even if they looked moderately the same from behind, wouldn’t Bruce recognize his wife’s coat? Maybe not. Some men could be blind to that sort of thing. My dad came to mind. He’d once lavishly praised Mom on the new dress she was wearing to a summer dinner party. It was, she icily informed him, the same thing she’d worn to a different gathering only the previous week.

  I shook my head and pulled myself out of that line of thought. I am not a police officer, which means I don’t have police resources. Bruce might have been in full view of a hundred people when Paula died. He might have been having lunch with the chief of police and the mayor.

  As for my theory of Catherine being the intended victim … I was running down a rabbit hole in pursuit of that idea.

  It then occurred to me Catherine might have been spending on the theater production as a way of recording a loss for tax purposes. Such was entirely possible: wealthy business owners know how to game the system. I couldn’t see it as a motive for murder, though. Then again, might she have been using the theater company as more than just a hobby or a tax loss? Might she be spending on the production as a way of covering up something more nefarious? Such as stealing from it? Did Paula know something about Catherine that Catherine didn’t want everyone else to know? Had Catherine decided she needed to eliminate Paula?

  Possible. Then again, just about anything was possible. I next looked up what I could find on Dave French. That’s not an uncommon name, so initially I had trouble locating him. I searched for the Carolers’ Motel and found a thoroughly up-to-date web presence, almost certainly Dave’s handiwork. The “about” section told me the motel was a proud family business, owned and operated by Rudolph residents, the French family. I recognized Dave’s parents from their pictures, having seen them around town, but I didn’t know them well. A short bio was provided for Dave. The only interesting tidbit was that he had a degree in theater from Barnard College at Columbia. Interesting, I thought. He said he had some acting experience. “Some acting” is a far cry from an actual degree.

  Armed with that information, I went to IMDb. Sure enough, David French had had a couple of minor—very minor—roles in Hollywood musicals and comedies. His parts were listed as “Boyfriend 1” or “Singing Waiter 2.” No mention of anything he’d been in in the past three years. He was, the bio informed me, divorced from actress Veronica Halston French, and the couple had no children. Veronica Halston French, I learned, had an acting career no more distinguished than that of her ex-husband. Although she, now under the name Veronica Halston, was still getting minor roles, whereas he’d not been in anything lately.

  I leaned back in my chair. That information opened up several cans of worms. Dave wasn’t happy at abandoning his dreams of stardom to run a budget motel in Upstate New York under the eye of a disapproving parent. Was he trying to get his foot back on the bottom rung of the show business ladder by joining the Rudolph production? Someone mentioned a Broadway director was coming to the opening night performance. Did Dave see this as his big chance to get back in the game?

  Had Paula, somehow, stood in his way?

  I couldn’t think how. Marley’s solo’s the best male song in the play, but that character only appears in one scene. The starring role, of course, is Ebenezer Scrooge. It was Desmond, as well as Ian, not Paula, who stood in the way of Dave getting the more important part.

  No way could anyone have mistaken Paula for Desmond, no matter how much of a rush they might have been in.

  My ringing phone snapped me back to the real world. I recognized Jackie’s number and answered.

  “Are you not coming in today, Merry? I told you I’m leaving at two for rehearsal, and Chrystal and I are swamped here.”

  With a shock I realized it was already half past one. I should have been at the store at noon. “I’ll be right there. I got … involved in balancing the store accounts and lost track of time.”

  “Okay. I have to say, Merry, we had to do some mighty fast cleaning before we opened. The police are not very tidy. They left gray dust on everything and didn’t bother to put things back in the correct places on the shelves. Cleaning stock should count as performing extra duties, don’t you think?”

  “No, I do not think. But thanks for doing that. Wait for me, will you? It shouldn’t matter if you’re a few minutes late to rehearsal.”

  “That wouldn’t be very professional of me, Merry.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  I grabbed my bag, shrugged on my coat, called to Mattie, and we headed off.

  Mattie never likes to hurry, but he does enjoy the cold, so today he was happy to walk alongside me at a brisk trot, and we arrived at the store in good time. I came in the back way, settled Mattie in the office, hung up my coat and scarf, put my purse into the desk drawer, changed boots into shoes, slapped on a smile, and went to work.

  The smile turned into a real one when I saw how satisfyingly busy the store was, with buyers as well as browsers. Chrystal was behind the counter, ringing up one of Alan’s handmade toy train sets. Jackie was helping a woman choose table linens. Jackie pointedly checked her watch when I came in. I ignored her. I was the boss here, after all.

  “This selection will do nicely,” the customer said. She carried a box of place mats—Santa and the reindeer crossing a star-studded night sky—and matching napkins to the counter.

  I slipped up to Jackie. “Come into the office before you leave?”

  “Why? I’m leaving now. It’s two o’clock, Merry. We’re expected at rehearsal at two thirty, and I need something to eat first. This is important, you know. As the understudy, of course, I thoroughly memorized Mrs. Cratchit’s lines, but I need to work with my fellow actors on movement and—”

  “I’ll pay for your lunch. How’s that?”

  “Okay.”

  “Be right back,” I called to Chrystal. She gave me a wave, as Jackie and I slipped behind the curtain.

  I didn’t take a seat in my office, but Jackie dropped into the visitor’s chair and swung one leg over the armrest. She was dressed today in a slim-fitting black and red checked dress over black leggings. “What’s up? If this is about me closing the store a few minutes early the other day, I can explain. I was—”

  “You left early? When was that?”

  “Oh. You don’t know about that? Never mind.” She gave me that totally “what, me?” Jackie smile. “You don’t want to leave Chrystal alone out there too long. She’s young and needs supervision.”

  Last year Chrystal threatened to quit when I promoted Jackie to assistant manager, mainly to stop her nagging but also because I’d been spending a great deal of time away from the store. Chrystal complained that Jackie was overly enthusiastic in her new role of “managing” the store’s only other employee. I had to give Chrystal a substantial raise to convince her to come back this holiday season.

  All of which had nothing to do with why I wanted to speak to Jackie. “Have you heard anything more from Detective Simmonds?” I asked. “About the murder. And … your involvement?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “I told you not to worry about that, Merry. I’m obviously in the clear. She hasn’t been around to see me or called me since Friday.”

  Which might simply mean she was building her case, slowly and steadily. I didn’t point that out to Jackie. “That’s good. I ran into Dave French this morning. We got to chatting about the play.”

  “And?”

  “And, I like him. He seems like a nice guy. He’s not entirely comfortable in Rudolph, though. Feels out of things. Trying to find a way to fit in.”

  “I guess.”

  “Did he … suggest you and he get to know each other better?”

  “That’s clever, Merry. You know it’s a line from the play, right? The Ghost of Christmas Present says—”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Jackie fluffed her hair and gave me a knowing grin. “I’ll admit Dave’s not a bad looking guy. He suggested we go out for a drink after rehearsal one night. I said I was meeting Kyle and invited him to join us. He suddenly remembered another appointment.” She winked at me. “I’ve been thinking about suggesting we have that drink some other time, but I’m not quite decided on that. Between you and me, Merry, I’m not sure if Kyle’s truly the one for me.”

  I didn’t say, “At long last.” But I thought it.

  “I’m not getting any younger, you know, as my mom never fails to remind me. I mean, I’ll be thirty-five soon. Dave’s like what, over forty? I suppose that’s old, but not too old. He’s divorced and he says he and his ex get on really well, so that’s good.” The smile disappeared. “Still, he runs his parents’ motel. Kyle’s preparing for a career as a professional photographer. He’s hoping to get a job soon with one of the big newspapers, on the crime beat. Either that or the celebrity circuit. He’s not sure which yet.”

  “Kyle can keep hoping.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. Did Dave tell you if he has any acting experience? As a professional, I mean?”

  “He said he’d been in movies.” Jackie shrugged. “Nothing I’ve ever seen, and he’s not in movies now, is he?”

  “Did you ever notice anything … shall we say particularly friendly between Dave and any of the other women?” Jackie was not what I’d call a student of the human condition. If it didn’t concern her, she didn’t much care. But I asked the question anyway.

  “Not really. I mean they’re all a lot older than him, except for me and Paula, but she was married. He and Catherine get on pretty well, but that’s only because she wants him to have a bigger part, right? Desmond and Ian don’t agree. Ian threatened to quit altogether. I’m on Catherine’s side, although I didn’t say so. I don’t want to make enemies, you know. I mean, Scrooge is like always played by an old guy. Booorrrring. Why not shake things up a bit? That’s what Catherine and Dave wanted.” She checked her watch again and stood up. “I have to go. Being on time is important to Desmond. He’s a real stickler and he expects us to do our best. That’s good right? Kyle says I shouldn’t let him boss us around the way he does. It’s not like we’re being paid to be in this thing, Kyle says, but I still think it’s important to act professionally.”

  I studied Jackie’s face, thoughts racing. Obviously, her part in the play was very important to her. How important? Could it be possible Jackie killed Paula to get Mrs. Cratchit’s role? As I’d told Vicky, Jackie, of all people, had means, motive, and opportunity.

  Jackie cocked her head to one side and watched me in return. Her long hair fell around her shoulders, her eyes were wide, and her expression held nothing but a question. Certainly not guilt, or even fear at being found out. I gave myself a mental shake. Jackie had worked for me ever since I opened the store. I knew her well. As well as we can know someone, that is. I was confident that not only did she not have that amount of anger or ambition in her, but if I was wrong, and she had killed for a part, Jackie didn’t have the wits or the guile to keep quiet about it.

  She held out her hand. I looked at it.

  “Lunch money?”

  “Oh, right.”

  * * *

  We close at five on Sundays, and it was almost fully dark by the time I locked the doors. Chrystal groaned and bent backward to give herself a nice stretch. “I’d say that was a good day.”

  “It was. I’m particularly pleased at how well your jewelry sold.”