“And Alan’s toys. Keep this up and you’ll be out of stock by Christmas Eve.”

  “Fortunately I know my suppliers. Speaking of which—?”

  “I’m off tomorrow and Tuesday, so I’ll be hard at it in my workshop. I’ll have some more pieces to you on Wednesday.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  After Chrystal left, I did some rearranging of the shelves. Aside from the latte and muffin Chrystal got for me when she went for a coffee run, I hadn’t had anything to eat all day. I thought sadly of my calorie-laden breakfast, abandoned in Muddle Harbor. I had no plans to see Alan tonight, and I didn’t dare call Vicky in case she was serious about going back to the café in time for the early bird special. I wondered what Diane Simmonds was up to tonight. She led a busy life. She was a single mom and a police detective. She might not appreciate a call at this time on a Sunday evening.

  Then again, she was a police detective and she did have a murder case on her plate. I gave her a call.

  She answered right away. “Merry. I was wondering when I’d get your daily call.”

  “I don’t call every day. Do I?”

  “As good as. What’s up?”

  “You asked me not to interfere in the investigation—”

  “Ask isn’t the correct word. I believe I ordered you not to interfere.”

  “Okay. I’m not interfering.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “But I have been thinking about it. I’m allowed to think, aren’t I?”

  “I’d stop that if I could, but it doesn’t seem feasible. Go ahead. I assume your thinking led you to having questions.”

  “If you’re not busy? My questions can wait until tomorrow.” In the background I heard someone call, “Good night, Detective.”

  “You’re still at the office?” I asked.

  “I am. Going through bank records, witness statements, prior police reports, and forensic results. All the tedious details involved in a modern investigation. Sometimes I think I’d like to be Inspector Lestrade, hailing hansom cabs and rushing off to consult with Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade never had to wait for a DNA analysis.”

  “I’ll be your Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

  “Don’t push your luck, Merry.”

  “You mentioned bank records. Shall I assume you know that the Renshaws have seen a substantial decrease in their financial status lately?”

  “I won’t ask how you know, as it’s more or less public knowledge for those interested enough to poke into their affairs. That’s irrelevant to this case. If you want to know about the Monahan family’s finances, I’m not going to tell you.”

  “I have a theory.” I quickly told her my thoughts about the killer mistaking Paula for Catherine. “You’ve been told Catherine isn’t loved by everyone in the theater group?”

  She didn’t reply immediately, which I took as a sign she was seriously considering my theory. “It’s a stretch, Merry,” she said at last, “but I will admit the time and location of the murder has led me to conclude it was very much a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “As the timing is so exact, you must be able to pin down people’s alibis.”

  “It helps.”

  “And?”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t help. One thing about exact timing, Merry, is it can be difficult to establish that an individual was somewhere at a precise time. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, a person of possible interest claims to have been shopping at Jayne’s Ladies Wear at two fifteen on Friday. The shop clerk might be able to tell us this person was in their shop sometime in the midafternoon, but at the exact time Paula Monahan was being murdered? Much less certain. They might not even remember this person being in the store. Places get busy, one customer blends into another. Or so I’ve been told. Another person might claim to have been jogging on the lakeside trail between one thirty and two thirty. Did anyone see this person on the trail? Maybe, but they didn’t check their watch and make a note of the time. I told you Kevin Monahan, Paula’s husband, has a solid alibi and that alibi remains solid. Of one thing I am sure—Jackie O’Reilly and several other members of the theatrical company were at your end of Jingle Bell Lane between two o’clock and your 911 call, but no one can say exactly where each of them were at any given time.”

  “What about Paula herself? Do you know where she went after leaving my store the first time?”

  “I have a fair idea. She left your store, according to you yourself, shortly after two and almost immediately following that Jackie went on her break. Paula returned around two fifteen, again according to you, a couple of minutes before your call to 911 was logged. In that time, it would appear Paula went to the library. She asked the woman behind the counter if they had an illustrated edition of A Christmas Carol. She was told all copies were out, and she left immediately. The librarian’s sure of the time, as a few minutes later she saw the emergency vehicles go past and checked her watch.”

  “That must be why Paula returned here so soon after leaving,” I said. “To buy the book. It’s prominently displayed on the book rack; she might have seen it when she was in, and decided to check if the library had it first. Her son Eddie was supposed to play Tiny Tim in the production. Perhaps she wanted him to have some exposure to the source material.” Seemed a bit late to be doing that, but she might have finally realized the rest of the cast was not happy with Eddie in the role and figured he needed some inspiration.

  “That might be, but I’m not going to speculate as to her thought process. The important thing is the librarian says Paula was alone when she left. Now, if I’m to get home in time to have supper with my daughter, which I’d very much like to, I’ll say good-night.”

  “One more quick question, if you don’t mind. Hello? Are you there, Detective?” I’d been hung up upon. I shouldn’t be too disappointed. Simmonds had told me one piece of information: other than Kevin Monahan, no one had an alibi that could be positively verified.

  And Jackie was still very much in the frame.

  * * *

  In for a penny, in for a pound. Isn’t that the saying? Meaning, go big or go home.

  I was heading home, but on the way, I’d go big.

  The cast of A Christmas Carol were rehearsing tonight. Opening night was less than a week away, so rehearsal would be intense. Almost certainly Catherine Renshaw would be there, keeping an eye on everything.

  Thus, this would be a good time to pay a social call on Bruce Renshaw. I switched off the lights and locked up the store. Mattie and I headed down Jingle Bell Lane. The other stores were closed or closing, but light and laughter spilled out of the bars and restaurants. It was still very cold, but temperatures were supposed to rise to slightly below freezing tomorrow, and a good amount of snow was expected later in the week. Snow was always welcome in Rudolph in mid-December. It made everything look Christmas-y and put the tourists in a holiday mood. Also known as a shopping mood.

  Mattie gave me a questioning look as we passed our house. “Just a quick errand,” I said. “Then home for dinner.”

  The Renshaw house was only a few blocks farther along. It was located on the lake side of the street, on a good-sized piece of property with mature trees and extensive flowerbeds, now turned over for winter. The thirty-foot pine in the center of the lawn was decorated for the season with thousands of tiny white bulbs, as were the evergreens in tubs on either side of the front door. The house itself was a modern construction that looked as though, as Alan said, it was trying to imitate a French chateau: all fake turrets, miniature balconies, several chimneys, grand sweeping staircase leading to an impressive front door.

  No cars were parked in the circular driveway and the doors to the three-car garage were closed, so I had no way of knowing if my quarry was at home. I climbed the steps. A huge wreath accented by more white lights and a giant red-and-green checked velvet bow graced the front door. I pressed the bell and could hear the sound faintly echoing inside the house. Mattie sniffed at the door and then dropped to a sit next to me. His big tail thumped.

  I rang once more and was about to give up when the door opened and Bruce Renshaw glared at me. “Yes?” He was dressed for an evening at home in khaki pants and a wool cardigan, brown slippers on his feet. The slippers looked to be well worn and much loved.

  “Hi. I’m Merry Wilkinson. We met at the theater group picnic?” I hadn’t actually met Bruce there, but I’d seen him. That’s the same thing, isn’t it?

  “I remember. You’re the woman who owns that store in town. Catherine’s not at home.” He grimaced. “She’s at yet another rehearsal.”

  “You might have heard that Paula Monahan died in my store. I was the one who found her.”

  “I heard.”

  “It’s, as you can imagine, been preying on my mind. A lot. I keep going over and over what might have happened to her and wondering if I could have done anything to prevent it.”

  He said nothing. I would have expected some expressions of sympathy at the least. “I know you’re not as closely involved with the theater group as your wife is—”

  “That’s an understatement. I have no idea why she’s so wrapped up in that thing. Bunch of small-town amateurs.” If we hadn’t been standing on his front step, he might have spat.

  “Uh … okay. It’s natural for people who are new to town to throw themselves into community activities, don’t you think? Particularly in a small town such as this one, where people go back generations and connections between people are tight. That sort of community can be hard to break into, sometimes.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Unlike in New York City. You lived in New York, right? I did too, for a while. Always something going on. One party after another. One good cause to support after another.”

  “What do you want, Merry?”

  I was cold and getting colder. Bruce had to be too, but he made no move to invite me in. I could smell a touch of fragrant smoke drifting down the hallway. They must have a real wood-burning fireplace.

  “I mean,” I floundered, “it’s nice of Catherine to throw herself into the play the way she has. Do you know if she has any other plans to continue her involvement in the community? I heard the Santa Claus parade fund is needing organizers as well as donors.”

  “You’ll have to speak to her about that. Good-night.”

  The door shut firmly in my face.

  Okay.

  I looked at Mattie, still smiling up at me. “That went well.”

  We trudged back home. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. That Bruce Renshaw would invite me in, offer me a seat by the fireplace (I’d been sensing applewood logs), hand me a twenty-year-old whiskey served in a cut-glass tumbler with just a splash of water, and tell me the intimate details of his and his wife’s financial situation while Mattie snoozed on what was very likely an expensive rug?

  In the past, I believed I could sometimes uncover things Detective Simmonds, with all her official resources, could not. People didn’t see me as an authority figure or a threat—or didn’t care if they were wasting my time—so they talked more freely to me. Simmonds herself had never quite come out and said I was a help. But she’d hinted at it. I thought she’d hinted at it.

  Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.

  We’d barely taken two steps up our driveway before Mrs. D’Angelo was on the front porch calling, “Yoo hoo! Merry,” and waving. Mattie barked and headed toward her. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen her, so I followed him.

  “Good evening, Merry,” my landlady said. “Snow’s on the way. Most welcome, I say. It’s not Christmas without snow.”

  “That’s true.”

  “A bit cold for a walk tonight, don’t you think? I happened to be watering the plants in the front window when you went by earlier.”

  “Mattie never minds the cold,” I said. “Speaking of cold, we won’t keep you.” She’d come outside so quickly, she hadn’t paused to put on her coat or gloves, and was dressed in only a tatty sweater over her housedress. I gave the leash a gentle tug and began to turn. Then I reconsidered. “Actually, we weren’t just walking. I paid a call on Bruce Renshaw. Do you know him?”

  Her eyes gleamed with the opportunity for fresh gossip. “Not personally, but I’ve heard a thing or two. As you can imagine, dear, some of the townspeople were curious when the Renshaws first arrived. Naturally.”

  “Naturally. They were quite the power couple at one time, I’ve heard. Retired now, although they seem young, as far as wealthy business owners go. Have you heard why?”

  Something crossed her face. A look of—shock? Disappointment? The realization of failure? Her mouth flapped open. It closed again. “I … I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “I … never thought to wonder. I mean, that’s none of my business of course. Although, come to think of it, I did hear that some of the local tradespeople are disappointed Bruce Renshaw isn’t as … generous as they’d hoped.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Why don’t I see what I can find out for you, dear.” She ran into the house without another word.

  Chapter Twelve

  When we got home, I fed Mattie first, and then began fixing my own dinner. I chopped whatever vegetables were on hand and put on a pot of rice to make a simple stir fry. I dished it up, but before sitting down to eat I went in search of a pad of paper and a pen. I found what I needed, and while I ate I considered what I’d learned about “the case” and prepared to make notes.

  I divided the paper into columns: Suspect. Motivation. Likelihood. I alternately munched on my dinner and chewed on the end of the pen. I studied the paper for a long time and then I swept it up, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room.

  Who was I kidding? I was spinning my wheels, going in circles, getting nowhere with this. It wasn’t up to me to do anything anyway.

  Paula had been killed in my shop, and I’d been the one to find her. But that was no reason for me to get involved in trying to find the killer.

  My mother had been accused, but not entirely seriously. Even Jackie couldn’t really be considered a major suspect.

  I didn’t know the theater people well, if at all. I certainly knew nothing about their lives, their fears, their hopes. As Bruce Renshaw had reminded me—it was all none of my business.

  I was going down rabbit holes chasing after my favored theory: first assuming Paula’s death had something to do with the theater group, and then trying to prove Paula had been killed being mistaken for Catherine. I needed to remember Paula had a life outside amateur theater. A life I knew absolutely nothing about.

  Paula’s husband, Kevin, was the most likely suspect: he’d argued with her only days before, a divorce had been threatened, child custody cases could be horrific. He had an alibi, but alibis can be broken. If he’d hired a killer to do the deed, then the police would find the evidence they needed.

  Not me.

  I had to trust in Diane Simmonds to do her job to the best of her abilities.

  It was Christmastime in Rudolph, and I had a store to run.

  * * *

  I went to bed early and slept well, free of thoughts of the death of Paula. I’d gone to bed so early, I was up even before the winter sun. Which was just as well as when I was putting the coffee on Mrs. D’Angelo called.

  “Good morning, Merry. I have a partial report for you. More information will be coming in throughout the morning, but I knew you’d be anxious to hear my preliminary findings.”

  “Report? Report on what?”

  “The Renshaws, of course. What you asked me to find out last night.”

  “Oh, that. I’ve decided not to—”

  “The general consensus is that they are, in the words of one of my contacts, flat broke. Broke, of course, is a relative term. They bought that big house on the lake, but in comparison to what they were used to it’s a substantial comedown. Tradespeople say she’s not so bad, but him! Ha. He bargains down to the lowest possible price and is so late paying some firms have had to threaten legal action.”

  I remembered the one occasion the couple had been in my store together. Catherine suggested Bruce get her a gift, and he begrudgingly bought one of the cheapest things in stock.

  “They rarely eat out at restaurants, and never just the two of them. Although Catherine Renshaw has cultivated friends, largely though her participation in the theater company, they do not entertain at their home with anything more extensive than a coffee morning, or something similar.”

  “Thanks, I—”

  “You’re probably wondering about the state of the marriage itself. I can find not a whiff of scandal. Doesn’t mean there isn’t any, of course. The subjects might have been discreet.” She sniffed in disapproval at the very idea. “One of my friends said it’s obvious Bruce adores her, Catherine. She’s more circumspect, and on occasion she’s seemed almost cold toward him, but she might simply be one not to display her feelings in public.” Another sniff of disapproval. “I have to go. A call’s coming in. It’s Donalda. She’s sure to have something important.”

  I blinked. I almost felt sorry for Bruce and Catherine. I’d decided their affairs had nothing to do with me, but I forgot to call off my crack investigation team.

  * * *

  As I was ready for work early and temperatures had risen overnight, I decided to take Mattie for a proper walk this morning. We headed away from town and the nicely groomed lakeside paths to a small patch of woodland left largely untouched where I could let Mattie off the leash for a romp.

  Not that Mattie ever truly romped—but you get the idea.

  This close to town the woods were never entirely quiet, and the path joined up with the ones in the park so it was a popular place for morning walkers. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and strolled along, enjoying the fresh scent of the winter woods and the soft crunch of forest debris under my feet. Mattie followed his nose.

  He stopped abruptly, lifted his head, let out a woof of greeting, and ran around a bend. I hurried after him to see what had caught his interest.