Which Dad would have done with or without the mayor’s permission.

  “Are you playing favorites?” I asked. “Surely Randy and his team would be entitled to the same courtesies. If they ever bothered to be interested.”

  He chuckled. “Which is the entire point. Randy, and what he has of a team, has never asked and has rebuffed any gesture I’ve made at friendship. I’m meeting Janice and her group at nine thirty at Vicky’s place. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “I just might do that. Thanks, Dad.”

  At 9:25, I left Melissa to open the shop and headed to the bakery. Monday morning was normally a quiet day in Rudolph, but with little over a week to go until the big day, people were up early, and the bakery was busy with people enjoying coffee and muffins before embarking on an intense day of shopping.

  Dad had pushed two tables together and was arranging chairs for his guests when I came in. He gave me a big grin when he spotted me. He was happy a few cautious steps were being taken between the two towns. It might come to nothing—Janice might not win the mayoral race, and Muddle Harbor would retreat back into their shell of resentment—but Dad was nothing if not optimistic and willing to give everything a try.

  “Mom coming?” I asked.

  “I believe her words at the invitation were along the lines of ‘Over my dead body.’ ”

  “I can believe that.” Even during the many years my dad had been mayor of Rudolph, the role of politician’s spouse was not my mother’s thing.

  The chimes above the door tinkled, and the Muddle Harbor delegation entered precisely on time. Along with Janice Benedict, her brother, John, a real estate agent, had come, as well as the town clerk, Graham Johannesen, and the two women I’d seen huddling with Janice after the breakfast meeting yesterday.

  Janice had moved quickly, and I thought that was a good sign. She wasn’t fooling around in establishing her candidacy in the mayor’s race.

  Everyone shook hands and found seats. A smiling young waitress took drink orders, and Marjorie brought platters heaped with tempting breakfast pastries. Vicky came out of the back, rubbing her hands through her short hair. “Welcome to my place,” she said to Janice with more than a touch of pride in her voice.

  “Looks nice,” Janice said. “I suggested we come here on a Monday morning, thinking it would be quiet, a good time to talk. But—” She indicated the occupied tables, the line up at the service counter, the hissing and gurgling espresso machine, the waitress collecting used dishes, a kitchen helper bringing out a tray of breakfast sandwiches to be arranged behind the glass display case. “Are you this busy all the time?”

  Vicky took a seat and glanced at Dad. He gave her a slight nod. “To be honest, no, we’re not. Not on Monday mornings most of the year. But it’s almost Christmas, the town’s full, people are eager to get a start on their day, and so yes, this is pretty normal. And”—she cleared her throat—“if I may say, very few of these people are regulars. The regulars, the people who work in town, at the banks, town hall, the stores, have already been in for their coffee. The stores open at nine thirty, so these people are shoppers. Many of them are tourist shoppers.”

  One of the women activated her phone and started jotting down notes.

  “I get it,” Janice said. “I do a good breakfast business with people going to work or farmers in for their shopping, what little shopping they do in town, but the café’s pretty much dead the rest of the day.”

  I studied the offerings of breakfast pastries and selected an almond croissant, plump and glistening.

  “Don’t compare apples and oranges.” John Benedict pointed his coffee cup at the handwritten menu on the blackboard behind the counter. “The two places are totally different. I don’t see any bacon and eggs and hash browns on the menu here. These here muffins are well and good”—he’d selected a blueberry one for himself—“but not what a working man needs to get a start on his day.”

  “Marjorie,” Vicky called, “can you bring one of the all-in breakfast sandwiches over, please.” She turned to John. “All the fat and calories a man, or a woman, would want in a convenient handheld packet.”

  “They’re very different businesses, yes,” Dad said. “But the point is still valid that Vicky’s place is busy and yours … is not.”

  “Point taken,” Janice said. “Which is why we’re here.”

  “Are you going to be helping Janice on her campaign?” Dad asked John.

  “Yeah, I am. Randy and I have been friends for a lotta years, but something has to change in Muddle Harbor. I haven’t had a solid offer for a commercial property in months. He’s going to regard that as a betrayal, but business is business, right?”

  Marjorie placed the requested item in front of John. Sausage patty, several slices of bacon, fried egg, slab of melted cheese, all spilling over the edges of the toasted store-made bun.

  “Point definitely taken,” John said as he tucked his napkin into his shirt front. The look on his face reminded me of Mattie when dinner was about to be served.

  I’m not particularly interested in small-town politics, despite my father’s lifelong involvement, so I found my attention wandering as they talked. Janice asked Vicky questions about the local restaurant scene; John and Dad talked hotels and B and Bs. One of the women, whose name I never did get, asked about what state grants might be available for new businesses while the other typed away on her phone, taking notes.

  I sat next to Graham Johannesen, who hadn’t had much to say. I was about to make my excuses and head back to the store when he said, “I heard you live across the street from what had been my aunt Dorothy’s place.”

  “What the neighbors still call the Johannesen house. Yes, I do. I didn’t know your aunt, though. I only moved there a couple of years ago, some time after she died.”

  “I was fond of the old bat. And I mean that in a good way. She could be difficult. Extremely difficult. Maybe I liked that contrarian feistiness about her. You always knew where you stood with Aunt Dorothy.”

  “My landlady, Mabel D’Angelo, was telling me the same the other day. She and your aunt got on fine, she said, but not everyone on the street did.”

  He grinned. “Sounds like Aunt Dorothy.” The grin faded, and he asked, “Have the police said anything more about Raquel? About what happened, I mean?”

  “Last I heard, they’re looking for a sometimes boyfriend and known criminal acquaintance of hers. He seems to have disappeared, which they consider highly suspicious.”

  “Poor Raquel. She never wanted to do anything the hard way. Always on the lookout for the main chance. I’ve seen how that turns out.” He nodded toward the end of the table where Janice and my dad had their heads close, talking quietly. “Which is why I’m on Janice’s team in this. As town clerk, even part-time, I’m supposed to be neutral. But, as a businessman, I can’t stay neutral much longer. Not while our town dies around us. About this boyfriend, is he from this area?”

  “No. New York City. The NYPD has taken over the lead on the investigation. Have the police spoken to you?”

  He shook his head. “No reason they should. I haven’t seen Raquel in years. Haven’t even heard anything about her since Aunt Dorothy died.”

  “My cookbook’s been accepted by a major publisher, and it comes out next fall,” Vicky said to one of the Muddle Harbor women. “It’s called Holiday Favorites From America’s Christmas Town, and we’re hoping it will bring even more business to the bakery. If anyone buys it, that is.”

  “They will,” I said. “Guaranteed.”

  “I’ll buy it,” the woman said. “Janice, have you considered writing a cookbook?”

  Janice turned her attention from Dad and laughed. “No one needs a recipe for bacon and fried eggs. I have no intention of turning the Muddle Harbor Café into anything other than what it is. A solid, good old-fashioned American diner. I’d like more business, that’s all. What happens here in January and February, Noel? The number of visitors must drop right off.”

  Around us, people began gathering up their bags and paying the bill. The line up at the counter was down to two people. I checked my phone. Twenty after ten. Shoppers were heading out, and that meant it was time to get back to work. I downed the last of my coffee, hesitated over taking another croissant (the platter had been topped up), gave in to temptation, grabbed one, wrapped it in a paper napkin, and pushed my chair back. “Sorry, all, but I have to run. Please drop in to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures later, and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  Graham leapt to his feet. “Why don’t I walk with you? I’d like to have a stroll down your main street. Check things out on my own. Catch you back in MH, Janice.”

  We said our goodbyes and left the bakery together. A soft snow was falling. As we stood on the steps, pulling on gloves and wrapping scarves, the sleigh passed, horses stepping high, bells jingling, ribbons threaded through manes blowing in the light wind. Across the street, the windows of Candy Cane Sweets glowed with red and white lights shaped into candy canes. Party gowns sparkled in the window of Jayne’s Ladies Wear. Next to the clothing store, Kyle Lambert was setting up the butcher’s hot dog cart.

  “Christmas Town indeed,” Graham said. “I don’t see a lot of promise here for growing my own business, being a farm supplies store, but I hope Muddle Harbor can learn something.”

  He fell into step beside me as we walked down the street. “I heard Aunt Dorothy’s house is going to be put on the market soon. I’d love to buy it, but I fear it’s going to be way out of my price range, and Beth Torrone isn’t likely to drop the price to help out a distant relative she doesn’t even remember.”

  I thought of Vicky and Mark buying the grand old house on the huge, treed property close to the lake they thought was the house of their dreams. They could only afford it because it was practically falling down. The dream hadn’t lasted once reality hit, and they were now happy in their small, modern bungalow. “Not so much grass to cut,” as Mark put it.

  “It can be tough for a young person starting out,” I said. “Finding the right house at the right price.”

  “I might have liked to rent it,” he said. “But I never even heard it was available until the opportunity was gone.”

  I glanced over at him. The tone in his voice had turned bitter. He must have realized how he sounded, as he gave me a bashful grin. “Silly sentiment, I suppose. Probably just as well. The drive between Rudolph and Muddle Harbor isn’t long, but it could be a tough commute on bad winter days.”

  We arrived at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. The windows were cheerful with their display of a holiday picnic basket being enjoyed by a stuffed Santa and Mrs. Claus, nutcracker soldiers, elf dolls, and a collection of reindeer ornaments. Inside, Jackie was helping a customer at the till while Melissa hung a newly arrived collection of jewelry on the stands.

  “This is your place,” Graham said. “Nice.”

  “I owe, I owe,” I sang, “so it’s off to work I go. I hope you enjoy the rest of Rudolph.”

  “Thanks, uh, before you go … Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” He spoke quickly, the words tumbling all over themselves. “Strictly in the interest of improving the relationship between our two towns. Hands across the municipal border and all that?” He gave me a charming, shy, crooked grin.

  I didn’t hesitate with my reply. “Thank you for the invitation, Graham, but I’m going to decline. I’m in a relationship.”

  His face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Dare I hope it’s not a serious relationship?”

  “We’re not engaged or anything, but it’s serious enough. For now.”

  “If things change, let me know,” he said.

  “I will. But they won’t.” The chimes over the door tinkled as I went into my shop.

  Chapter Twenty

  My day only got more interesting from there. And not in a good way.

  Not long after I left the bakery, I spotted Dad and the crowd of Muddites strolling past. Dad was talking and gesturing, the woman with the phone taking notes while trying to watch her footing at the same time. Not many people paid them any attention, but I noticed the jaws of a few Rudolphites hit the snow-cleared sidewalks. Dad and his group did not come into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures and about ten minutes later they passed by again, going in the opposite direction. Graham Johannesen was not with them either time.

  Shortly before three a highly distressed Mrs. D’Angelo burst through the doors. “Merry! The most ridiculous, unbelievable thing has happened. I can scarcely credit it!” Her hair was wild; her coat hung askew, as she’d matched the wrong buttons with the right buttonholes. A well-worn black boot was on her left foot, a new brown one on the right. She sucked in great gasping breaths, as though she’d run all the way from the house.

  I abandoned the customer I was helping and hurried toward my landlady. “What on earth? Are you all right? Should I call an ambulance? Jackie, call 911.”

  “No. No. Nothing like that,” Mrs. D’Angelo cried as her legs gave out beneath her. I grabbed her arm before she crashed into a display of glass tree ornaments.

  “I’m a doctor, can I help?” my customer asked.

  The store was full. Everyone abandoned their browsing to stare.

  “Betrayed! I’ve been betrayed!” Mrs. D’Angelo wailed.

  I looked her over quickly. No blood, no broken bones, no bruises.

  “Why don’t we find a seat in my office?” I said as Melissa took her other arm.

  “I’m … I’ll … be all right. It’s the shock, just the shock. Such a shock.”

  “Are you sure, madam?” the doctor asked. “You don’t look well.”

  Mrs. D’Angelo took a deep breath. She gave her head a good shake and almost visibly began to recover. She patted the approximate vicinity of her heart. “The shock. The shock. I’ll be all right in a moment.”

  “Jackie, get her a glass of water,” I ordered, and my assistant ran for the back. Mattie woofed.

  I guided Mrs. D’Angelo to the stool behind the counter while Melissa hovered nervously nearby.

  “If you’re sure,” the doctor said.

  “We’re okay here,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Jackie was soon back with the water and handed it over. Mrs. D’Angelo took the glass in shaking hands and drank deeply.

  “Melissa,” I said, “can you see if any of these nice people need help?”

  No one moved.

  “Melissa?” I repeated.

  “What? Oh, right. Help. Uh, does anyone need any help here?”

  “You too, Jackie. Back to work. We’re fine now.”

  Jackie gave Mrs. D’Angelo a last questioning look before she turned and gave the circle of onlookers a broad smile. Everyone immediately turned away, back to chatting among themselves or admiring the goods. The doctor hesitated and then joined them, still keeping a cautious eye on us.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” I said to Mrs. D’Angelo when we were alone. “Were you in some sort of an accident?”

  Mrs. D’Angelo shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. The … the”—her voice broke—“police. Came to my house. They … she … accused me of killing that poor young woman.”

  I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

  “Okay. Let’s grab a coffee or something, and you can tell me about it.”

  “That would be nice. Yes, thank you.” Mrs. D’Angelo climbed off the stool, but her breathing and her legs weren’t quite back to normal. She must have run all the way here. Mrs. D’Angelo was not a woman who spent a great deal of time in the gym.

  “Jackie, Melissa,” I called. “I’m taking a break. Call me if you need anything.”

  Once again everyone in the shop, including my two employees, stopped what they were doing to watch us.

  I led the way out of the store and immediately began to turn right, to Cranberry Coffee Bar next door, but Mrs. D’Angelo gasped. “No. Not there. It’s not safe. I don’t trust that Mary-Ellen who works there.”

  I knew Mary-Ellen. A pleasant middle-aged woman with two kids in primary school, a member of the local amateur dramatic society. Her husband coached kids’ soccer in the summer, hockey in the winter. I could think of no reason she was not trustworthy. Trustworthy, or not, about what? Had the police truly accused Mrs. D’Angelo of murder? Or had she suddenly come down with a serious case of out-of-control conspiracy theories?

  “Okay,” I said. “Is the bakery … uh … safe?”

  “Yes. It should be. If we get a quiet table.”

  I kept a solid grip on her arm as we walked down the street. Gradually, I could feel her strength coming back, and I released her when we reached Victoria’s Bake Shoppe.

  The lunch rush was over, with no line at the counter. A handful of tables were taken by people chatting over the last of their tea and cakes, shopping bags piled around their feet. More than a few of those bags were from Mrs. Claus’s Treasures.

  I spotted a table at the back, tucked next to the doors leading to the restrooms, and pointed it out to Mrs. D’Angelo. “You take a seat, and I’ll fetch the drinks. What would you like?”

  “A latte, I think, dear. One of those ones with the chocolate syrup and whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles on the top.”

  “Everything okay?” Marjorie asked me as I approached the counter.

  “I don’t know. Can you tell Vicky I’m here? I’ll have a low-fat latte and one large mocha. Heavy on the whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. On the mocha, not the latte.”

  “Take a seat, and I’ll bring it to you. Vicky! Merry’s here.”

  My friend’s hairnet-covered head popped out of the kitchen. “What’s up?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “If you have a minute, come and join us.”

  The head retreated, and a moment later all of Vicky came out. She’d pulled off the hairnet and was drying her hands on the front of her apron. “Bring me a cappuccino, please, Aunt Marjorie.”