A woman dressed in winter running gear sat on a park bench, holding her hand out to the big dog. He sat in front of her, tongue lolling, tail thumping. “Rachel,” I said. “Good morning. It’s a nice day for a run.”

  Rachel McIntosh turned her head toward me. I bit my tongue. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “It’s okay, Merry. I’m always happy to see this big lug.” She gave Mattie an enthusiastic scratch behind his years. His entire body wiggled in delight. “He cheers me up, no end.” Her voice broke.

  Rachel had obviously been crying. Her nose and eyes were red, her cheeks streaked with tears, and she clutched a bundle of tissues in her gloved hands.

  “Are you … okay?” I asked.

  “Not really.” She wiped at her face. “But I will be. I have to be, don’t I? It’s going to be a busy day in town.”

  “If you’re sure. We’ll leave you alone. Come on Mattie, let’s go.” The dog made no move to stand up. He whined softly and rested his head in Rachel’s lap. She ran her fingers through his thick fur.

  “Why don’t you sit for a bit, Merry.” She wiggled over slightly, making room for me on the bench. “Unless you’re in a hurry to get to work, that is.”

  “No. No hurry. We’re enjoying the morning quiet.” I tucked my coat beneath me and took a seat next to her, and we sat together in silence. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Mattie stayed near her, but his ears and nose twitched as something small moved through the undergrowth close to us.

  “The rest of the season’s looking promising, don’t you think?” Rachel said at last.

  “I do. The play’s always a good draw. Last year’s was a disaster, but this year’s production seems to be attracting people. I’ve heard advance ticket sales are good.”

  Rachel burst into a fresh round of tears.

  I didn’t know what I’d said, but I hurried to apologize. “Gosh, I’m sorry. I forgot Ian’s an important part of the group, but wasn’t he ill last year? I seem to remember he had to drop out and the person who took his place wasn’t very good. That’s what people said, anyway.”

  “Ian.” She sobbed. “Ian. We’ve been married for almost thirty years. We have two children. I’m hoping for grandchildren someday in the not-too-distant future. I thought it was a good marriage. It was a good marriage.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.” I patted her shoulder awkwardly. Mattie nestled his head deeper into her lap.

  “I don’t know what to do, Merry. I don’t know if I can forget and forgive.”

  I felt absolutely awful. Awful for poor Rachel, weeping for her marriage. Awful for me—totally unsure of what to do. Finally, I asked, “Has Ian talked about … moving on?”

  “No. He’s said nothing. He doesn’t know I know. But the wife always finds out eventually, doesn’t she? Perhaps I should have been more involved in the theater group. But I have the store and the kids, even though they’re grown up now, and my own friends and interests. I never thought …”

  “You shouldn’t have to pretend to enjoy the same things he does,” I said. As I spoke, my mind raced. Was Rachel telling me Ian was involved with a woman in the Rudolph Community Players? She must be. Ian and Rachel had been married a long time. They owned a house together as well as Candy Cane Sweets, although Rachel was the one who managed the store and worked there. As well as the house, they must have savings and investments. When a longtime marriage breaks up, the financial details can get complicated. In any divorce, children take sides, and they were almost certain to side with the innocent party—with Rachel.

  “How long have you known?” I asked.

  “A couple of weeks,” she sniffed. “I’ve been waiting it out. Hoping it was just a brief, temporary thing. That he’d return to his senses. It is over. Now, finally. But he’s not the Ian I know. I knew. He’s bad tempered, irritable, refuses to talk to me.” She wept some more. “I don’t know if I can forgive him, not just for the affair, but for shutting me out so completely.”

  Ian must have been having an affair with Paula. It was over because she died. Understandable Ian would be upset about that. Be not himself; not able to talk about it.

  But could it be more than that? Was it possible Paula been pestering Ian to leave Rachel? Paula’s own marriage was on the rocks. Had she told Kevin, shortly before he was observed by members of Mrs. D’Angelo’s network stuffing his belongings into the trunk of his car, she was leaving him for Ian?

  Had Ian not wanted that to happen? Had he intended to stay married to Rachel, and the thing with Paula to be nothing but a “harmless” fling? When he realized Paula was serious, that Paula had ended her own marriage, had he acted to put a stop to her intentions?

  Had Ian killed Paula?

  Poor Rachel.

  “I’m sorry, Merry,” she said. “You don’t need to hear my troubles.”

  “I don’t mind. Everyone needs a shoulder to cry on sometimes.”

  “You’re kind.”

  I patted her back and dared to ask the question uppermost on my mind. “Has Ian said anything to you about Paula’s death?” I asked.

  “Paula? Goodness, I’ve been so wrapped up in my own misery, I almost forgot about poor Paula. He’s shocked, of course. We all are. That such a thing could happen in Rudolph in the middle of the day. People are saying it must have been her husband. What’s his name again?”

  “Kevin.”

  “Right. Kevin. But the police haven’t arrested him, have they? I heard he’s gone to Rochester to stay with his brother and his family for a while. He took his son with him. Surely they’d remove the child if the father was under suspicion for murder? People are always too quick to jump to conclusions, don’t you think?” She blew her nose. “Thank you for listening to me Merry, but it’s time we were going. I want to finish my run, and then I have a store to open and so do you.” She gave Mattie a final thump on his side and started to stand.

  “Hold on a sec,” I said. “You almost forgot about Paula. Ian’s no more upset than anyone else about her death? Isn’t Paula.… I mean, weren’t you telling me Ian was having an affair with Paula?”

  “Paula? Heavens no. Ian was fooling around with that Catherine Renshaw.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  What do you do when you know things you’d rather not know?

  Rachel gave me a weak smile and a spontaneous hug, Mattie another hearty slap, and ran down the path toward town, her bright red jacket and pants a welcome splash of color in the gray and brown woods.

  All the reasons that flashed through my mind as to why Ian might have killed Paula now switched to Catherine. Had Ian killed Paula, mistaking her for Catherine?

  Last night I’d told myself I was finished with this case. I took my dog for a nice relaxing walk in the winter woods before starting another busy day in the store I loved (most of the time). And now here I was, thinking about the whole blasted situation once again.

  Should I tell Diane Simmonds what Rachel had told me?

  I decided not to. Not immediately, anyway. Rachel hadn’t asked me to keep her confidence, but surely she had a right not to expect a tearful park bench confession to be spread all around town.

  Not that telling the police was spreading it all around town. But close enough.

  “Another fine mess you got me into,” I said to Mattie.

  He paid me no attention.

  Now I was thinking about it, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I hadn’t seen any signs of undue affection between Ian and Catherine. If anything, the opposite. They barely managed to be polite to each other, and sometimes got perfectly snippy. I’d assumed they were clashing over the direction in which to take the play. Instead they were showing all the signs of a relationship gone bad and two people who couldn’t avoid still having contact with each other. As much as they might not want to.

  Catherine wanted Ian out of the main role and the younger and handsomer Dave in it.

  Had Ian ended the affair, and favoring Dave was Catherine’s way of showing her disapproval? It was possible, likely even, she wanted Ian to quit. Regardless of who ended it, no one wants continuing evidence of a failed relationship hanging around. It was for that very reason I’d left Manhattan, which I loved, and my job at Jennifer’s Lifestyle, which I adored, and came home to Rudolph: to get far away from Max Folger and the woman who’d taken control of the magazine, the one he left me for.

  Ian, obviously, had no intention of being pushed out by Catherine. For one thing, he’d been with the company far longer than she had. For another, Desmond, the director, as well as the majority of the cast and crew supported him.

  Had Ian McIntosh seen Paula going into Mrs. Claus’s in her black coat and blue scarf, and in his anger mistaken her for Catherine? Had Ian decided to end his relationship with the artistic director once and for all?

  * * *

  “How was rehearsal yesterday?” I asked Jackie when she came into work.

  “Do theater people bicker all the time?” she said in reply.

  “If you go by what my mother says, yes. Egos are on the line, I suppose. More than in many situations.”

  “I have my part down pat. Desmond said I’ve slipped into the role as though it had been mine all along.” She preened. If Desmond had said that, I considered it to be rather tactless, considering the initial actor had died. “Speaking of your mother … She wants me to move to the back of the row during the big numbers. I don’t think that’s a good idea, and I said so. The audience wants to see someone young and energetic on stage.”

  Speaking of egos—Jackie had essentially told the rest of the chorus they were old and decrepit.

  “Desmond said I could stay in the front, if I didn’t sing quite so loudly. Your mom said it wasn’t a matter of volume.” Jackie’s face twisted as she thought. “Do you know what she meant by that?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “I asked Irene to make some adjustments to my costume.” Jackie stuck out her chest and wiggled her top half. I choked. “She didn’t want to but Desmond said that would work. Why not make Mrs. Cratchit young and pretty, eh? Although with Rick Reid playing Mr. Cratchit it’s a stretch to think we’d be married. Still, that’s show business, right, Merry? Our job is to make the audience believe.”

  “I suppose it is.” My sister Eve is an actress, trying with limited success to make it in Hollywood. She has a lot to say about young and pretty versus having talent and being a suitable age for the part. My other sister Carole is an opera singer, like our mother. Even in that world, where you’d think the voice and physical presence were everything, such wasn’t always the case.

  “What’s happening about the role of Scrooge?” I asked. “Is Ian keeping the part or is it going to Dave?”

  “Catherine and Desmond seem to have stopped arguing about it. Your mom’s with Desmond. She says because Dave’s the better singer, and Marley has the best song, then Dave has to be Marley. So there. People don’t argue with your mom much, do they Merry?”

  “My dad doesn’t even argue with Mom.”

  “Opening night’s Friday, so Catherine finally admitted, although not in so many words, it’s too late to be recasting.”

  “How did Ian react to that?”

  She shrugged. “He didn’t say anything, but he looked pleased.”

  The chimes over the door tinkled, and we both turned to greet the first customers of the day, two couples in their late middle age. Well groomed, well dressed, expensive coats and boots.

  “Welcome to Mrs. Claus’s,” Jackie said. “Please let me know if you need any help.”

  “Thank you,” the younger of the women said in a deep Southern accent. She smiled broadly as she looked around, taking it all in. “Everything in your town is so absolutely charming. The stores, the restaurants, the decorations. The lobby of our hotel looks like a French alpine village, and the gardens at night … The perfect Christmas wonderland.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I said. “Is this your first visit to Rudolph?”

  “Yup,” said the man with her, his accent equally broad. “When my wife suggested we come to New York State for Christmas, I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather not do. Not all that fond of the cold myself.” He suppressed a shudder.

  “We’re hoping for snow,” the woman said. “And lots of it. Right, Will?”

  Will shuddered once again. “Not me. I intend to spend most of my time sitting by that lobby fireplace with a cup of mulled wine.”

  “And going to the play of course. That’s the only way I could get him here,” she said to me with a laugh. “Will’s been a fan of Aline Steiner for years; it just about broke his itty-bitty heart when she retired. When he heard she’s appearing in a musical play in a little town in the middle of nowhere, Will couldn’t get tickets fast enough for us and our friends, who are also opera buffs. We’re going to opening night.”

  “Aline’s—” Jackie began.

  “Also directing the chorus,” I interrupted before she could mention that Aline’s my mother. It’s hardly a secret around town, but I didn’t want opera lovers pitching tents in the alley hoping to get a glimpse of their idol dropping by.

  Will smiled at me. “I don’t suppose you happen to know her favorite restaurant or coffee shop?”

  “Sorry, no. Let us know if you need any help.”

  * * *

  The diva herself came into the store shortly before closing, looking every inch the diva in a double-breasted, floor-sweeping navy-blue coat with gold buttons, a matching blue hat, and blue leather gloves. She held a takeout cup in one hand and a large shopping bag in the other.

  “Hi, Aline,” Jackie said from behind the counter. “We had people in this morning who are big fans of yours.”

  Mom tried not to look too pleased. “How nice.”

  “What brings you here?” I asked as Jackie returned to ringing up purchases.

  She indicated the bag she carried. “Some shopping. I needed a new dress to wear for the opening night after-party. It’s going to be a very dressy affair, dear, so I hope you have something suitable.”

  “Me? I haven’t been invited.”

  “You haven’t been invited?”

  “Nope.”

  “A shocking oversight on Sue-Anne’s part. She’s so gushy over having a senator and professional theatrical people she’s forgotten who’s important in Rudolph. Consider yourself invited. Plus Alan, of course. You can’t show up by yourself. Bring Vicky and her date too.”

  “Kyle will be taking pictures for the paper,” Jackie said.

  “I hope he’s learned how to use the focus by then.” Mom sipped from her cup. “I went into Cranberries to get a drink before my next appointment.”

  “Where are you off to now?”

  “I’m meeting with Irene for one last fitting of my Belle dress.”

  “Can you remind her it would be great if she can make my dress fit a bit better?” Jackie asked.

  “No,” Mom said.

  “Before you go,” I said. “Do you have a minute, Mom?”

  “I don’t suppose it matters if I’m a few minutes late. Why?”

  “I have something I want to talk over with you. A … family matter. Come into my office. You okay here, Jackie?”

  Jackie glanced around the empty shop. “I figure I can manage, thanks.”

  “What family matter? Has something happened I should know about?” Mom asked when were in my office with the door closed.

  “A little white lie. I don’t want Jackie trying to eavesdrop, that’s all.” I took a deep breath. Seeing Mom with her Cranberry Coffee Bar cup and her mentioning Irene reminded me of a few things. Irene had been in the vicinity shortly before Paula died. She’d told Jackie she was thinking of quitting the production because of interference from Catherine. I myself overheard her complaining to Desmond that Catherine was trying to override her costuming decisions. If it was possible Paula had been killed in mistake for Catherine, then Irene could be considered a suspect.

  Even if Paula had been the intended victim, Irene might still be in the frame. She’d been furious at Paula at the picnic in the park when Eddie bullied her granddaughter. If Eddie was a bully on that occasion, it was entirely possible he continued bullying the other children in the play. Had Irene had enough and decided the best way to get rid of Eddie’s participation in the community players was to eliminate his mother? Which is precisely what happened: according to Rachel, Kevin had taken his son to Rochester. Eddie Monahan would not appear as Tiny Tim.

  “Irene,” I said. “What do you know about her, Mom?”

  My mother raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “That question is so out of left field, as your father might say, I have to ask why you are asking. You are not, I hope, involving yourself in any more police matters. Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time?”

  “I’m not involving myself in anything. I’m curious, that’s all. Don’t you remember you and Dad encouraging all us children to be curious about the world around us?”

  “And wasn’t that a mistake,” she said. “As for Irene, I’d never met her before joining the players. She doesn’t sing; she has no involvement, far as I know, in town affairs. She’s married and has grandchildren, but I don’t know what her husband does, nor have I met him. I’ve never been to her home. She’s done the costumes for the plays for many years. She mentioned once that she enjoys sewing for her granddaughters. I cannot bear to think of what that means. Plaid pinafore dresses and blouses with bows at the neck, no doubt.”

  “What about her costumes?”

  “I’ll freely admit she does an excellent job, from what I’ve seen so far. Someone mentioned how pleased Irene is because this year they’re putting on something with a historical setting so she can go all out with the ladies’ dresses and the ghosts’ costumes in particular.”

  “Have you ever seen her display any signs of temper? Or of repressed anger?”

  “She has her own ideas about the wardrobe selections, and strong ones. She insists she takes direction from Desmond, but I’d say it’s more she tells him what she intends to do and he doesn’t argue. She has little patience for interference, and because of that she doesn’t get on well with Catherine, who also has strong ideas and little patience. Such, Merry, is life in a theatrical company. But we don’t go around killing each other over it.”