Except someone had.

  “I do not know why you are asking this, dear. Irene, I’m sure, is exactly what she appears to be. A grandmother with an all-encompassing hobby.”

  “How important that hobby is to her, I’m wondering.”

  My mom brushed my cheek in a kiss and a wave of Chanel No. 5. “Stop wondering.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I heard little more about the case for the next two days. Jackie told me she’d been interviewed again, this time by a “dreadfully handsome” officer from the state police who’d been sent to help with the investigation. Jackie seemed to think his attentions were a good thing. I didn’t agree, but I didn’t tell her so. Mom reported that Detective Simmonds had been talking to the members of the theater group, but no one had anything new to tell her. I decided not to tell Simmonds what I’d learned, and observed, and speculated, about Ian and Catherine. If the evidence was there to prove my vague suspicious, the police would find it.

  According to Mrs. D’Angelo, Kevin Monahan remained at liberty in Rochester. Also according to Mrs. D’Angelo, some of the teachers at the school where Paula had taught had been questioned about “an incident” in the staff lunchroom earlier in the fall. Said incident turned out to be a teacher accidentally spilling hot coffee on Paula and Paula getting angry about it. The incident had been resolved when the teacher paid for the dry cleaning of Paula’s jacket, although everyone who’d been there said it had been Paula’s fault, as she wasn’t watching where she was putting her big feet and collided with the other teacher. Paula had not been popular, my landlady informed me, with either her fellow staff members or the students and their parents. However, she grudgingly admitted, not being popular was rarely grounds for murder. Young Eddie, Mrs. D’Angelo’s network reported, was in therapy to help him deal with the sudden death of his mother.

  That, I thought, was a good thing.

  Wednesday, we awoke to sunny skies and a good foot of fresh snow. Perfect for the beginning of Christmas week. As it was now only eleven days to Christmas Eve, Rudolphites had more important things on their minds than a murder and police investigation. Tonight was a full dress rehearsal of A Christmas Carol, and Friday would see the sold-out premiere presentation of the play. Sue-Anne had organized an after-party, and all the movers and shakers in this part of the state, and many from beyond, had been invited to attend. (Actually Wendy had organized the party and the guest list, but Sue-Anne took the credit.) The Saturday performance was also sold out. The production would take a break on Sunday for the annual children’s party at which many of the town’s residents would be involved. My dad, AKA Santa Claus, and Alan, AKA head toymaker, would be the stars of the afternoon, and most of the senior class at Rudolph High would have supporting roles as elves. I’d been roped into putting in an appearance as Mrs. Claus, and Victoria’s Bake Shoppe would be responsible for the catering of kid-friendly foods and mountains of Christmas cookies. My mom’s children’s vocal classes were scheduled to sing Christmas carols at the party.

  Next week, in the run-up to Christmas the following Monday, Mom and some of the adults she taught, dressed in full Victorian-era costumes, would stroll up and down Jingle Bell Lane singing carols for the entertainment of shoppers. It was a heck of a lot for Mom to do as well as appearing in the play and directing the musical components. She complained bitterly about the pressure. Dad sympathized with her, brought her tea and toast in bed in the mornings, and reminded me that Mom never hesitated to say no to anything she didn’t want to do.

  Dad popped into the store that afternoon as I was ringing up a collection of tree ornaments and a stuffed reindeer. The woman I was serving turned at the sound of the chimes over the door. She audibly gasped and swung back to me. “Oh, my goodness. Is that Santa himself in civilian clothes?”

  The little girl with her, the one who’d carefully selected the reindeer as a gift for her brother, stared, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

  “It might be.” I touched my index finger to my lips. “Please, don’t tell anyone. He likes to be incognito when he’s checking to see who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.”

  “It will be our secret, right Madison?” said the woman.

  Madison said nothing, so awe-struck was she. My dad was dressed in jeans and one of his beloved ugly Christmas sweaters, this one a hand-knitted thing showing Rudolph’s smiling face with a giant red battery-operated light for a nose. A red woolen toque with a white pom-pom bouncing on the tip was perched on his head. No matter how he dressed, Dad always looked like Santa Claus, with his bushy gray beard and eyebrows to match, red cheeks, sparkling blue eyes, and big round belly.

  “Ho ho ho. And a merry Christmas to you!” he bellowed at Madison and her mother.

  “Merry Christmas, Santa,” the woman said. Madison said nothing.

  When they’d left he gave me a smile that was just my dad. “Things are hopping in town, honeybunch. Lots of excitement about the opening of A Christmas Carol. Grace tells me a state senator has reservations at the Yuletide Inn for the weekend. Ralph and I had lunch at the Touch of Holly earlier, and they say they’re fully booked for tonight through the weekend. Such is the same with most of the hotels and restaurants.”

  “Always good to hear.”

  “Ralph and I had to admit that perhaps Sue-Anne’s excessive expenditure on this party of hers isn’t entirely out of line. It’s bringing extra publicity to Rudolph.”

  The store was busy, but Chrystal and Jackie seemed to be handling everything so I could relax for a moment and have a chat with Dad, while keeping an eye out. “How’s Mom? Pre-performance nerves started yet?”

  “Thankfully not yet, but I’m expecting them. She’s dismissing the entire production as of no consequence, but Friday night will be her first time in front of a paying audience in a theater for several years.” Dad glanced around the store and spotted the new display tucked into a back corner. “Those children’s books are new.”

  “I’m trying them out, see how well they do.”

  “You need to place them more prominently. So people can see them.”

  “I’m not competing with the bookstore, Dad.”

  “The bookstore sells Christmas decorations and ornaments. Even some dolls.”

  “But not primarily. People come in here looking for gifts, so we want to provide them with one-stop shopping, that’s all.”

  My father headed to the small book rack. He selected a copy of each volume and carried them to the front window. He put them on a side table and climbed into the big picture window, where he began rearranging my lovely display. I hurried over. “Dad, what are you doing? I have everything exactly the way I want it.”

  “A few minor adjustments, honeybunch.” He waved at a family passing by, who laughed and waved back. “If you have items in stock, you want people to know about it.”

  “But, but … this is a décor store. If I have books in the window, people will come in looking for books other than those, and I’ll have to send them to the bookstore.”

  Books prominently arranged to his satisfaction, Dad returned my Christmas morning display to some sort of order and clambered out of the window. “I’ll be off. I’m going to your mother’s dress rehearsal tonight. Would you like to come?”

  “Are they allowing an audience?”

  “Of select invitees. Aline has invited me. And I am inviting you. Having us in the audience will calm her nerves.”

  “Sure.” I had nothing better to do. Alan was furiously finishing his last minute orders as come Sunday he’d be busy with his head toymaker role, and Vicky and her staff were working all hours to bake enough cookies to feed a stable of reindeer.

  Only about five minutes after Dad left, a woman ran into the store. “Oh, thank heavens. You’re a lifesaver.”

  “I am? How so?”

  She pointed to the display window. “All my daughter wants for the new baby for Christmas is a copy of The Polar Express. I’ve searched bookstores all over, but it’s out of stock everywhere. And then, what do you know, I was walking past and saw a copy in your window. I never would have thought to come in here otherwise. It’s a genuine Christmas miracle!”

  So gobsmacked was I, I could think of nothing to say. I lifted my right arm and pointed to the small shelf of books, tucked into a dark corner. Realizing I probably looked much like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, I dropped my arm.

  “There it is!” She clapped her hands. “How wonderful. Oh, and you have a copy of the children’s illustrated version of A Christmas Carol too. Perfect. We’re taking the older grandchildren to the Saturday show. Look at those lovely dolls. A Santa doll will make a nice addition to the book as a gift.”

  I know my dad isn’t Santa Claus.

  But sometimes, I wonder.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The penultimate dress rehearsal for A Christmas Carol was due to start at six-thirty, and my dad always likes to be early. For everything. As instructed, by five to six, I was standing on the sidewalk outside Mrs. Claus’s Treasures waiting for Dad. Jackie had left a short while ago. She’d been nothing but a bundle of nerves as the day progressed. Chrystal would wait a few minutes more for those last-minute shoppers and then lock up the store for the night.

  “What’s this?” Margie Thatcher called from her own doorway. “Leaving early, Merry. You have a highly slapdash approach to the running of your business.”

  I ignored her as Dad pulled up. I hopped into the car. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask Margie to play Scrooge.”

  Dad gave Margie a cheerful wave, and she scowled in return. He chuckled as he pulled into traffic. “That would indeed be typecasting. But remember, honeybunch, Scrooge has a conversion at the end, and he becomes kind to everyone. I’m afraid Margie, like her sister before her, is past that.”

  Dad, I knew, had tried over the years to befriend the Thatcher sisters, to draw them into the full life of the Rudolph community. He had not succeeded, but he still made an attempt to be friendly.

  “Do you remember Al Thorne?” Dad asked me.

  “No. Who’s he?”

  “I suppose you wouldn’t. One of the old gang from our high school days. He moved to Texas not long after we graduated, to be with a woman he met at college. The woman, far as I remember, didn’t last, but Texas did. Anyway, he’s in the area for a short visit, staying with his parents in Rochester. I’m going down tomorrow for an impromptu reunion. Not good timing with Christmas week about to begin, but I’d like to see him. I’ve been invited to stay overnight, as one or two beers might be involved.”

  “Have fun,” I said.

  * * *

  Jackie wasn’t the only one suffering from nerves. Desmond Kerslake paced up and down in front of the stage. Catherine Renshaw sat in the center of the front row, her foot swinging wildly in the air and the fingers of her right hand tapping a rapid rhythm on the armrest. Irene Dowling was a few seats down from her, chewing on the end of a tape measure.

  The theater was mostly empty, but a handful of family members and guests had come, and they whispered excitedly to each other. “I wonder who invited them?” Dad waved to Randy Baumgartner and John Benedict.

  “Dave French is trying to close a deal to buy an old motel in Muddle Harbor,” I said. “It was likely him, trying to make friendly.”

  “I hope the deal goes through. Lloyd French had grand dreams of having a chain of budget motels when he first took over the Carolers’, far bigger dreams than business sense. About all he could ever manage was to keep that one place running. If his son can do what he couldn’t, maybe he’ll give Dave some credit for once. Their relationship’s always been a difficult one, and folks say Dave only agreed to come back and help out because his mother begged him.”

  “Nice he was able to get involved in the theater then,” I said. “Give him an escape from parental disapproval.”

  “What would you know about parental disapproval, honeybunch?” my father asked with a chuckle.

  “Nothing whatsoever. Although I do remember when I was in tenth grade and I started going out with Mike McIver …”

  “The less said of Mike, and all the McIvers, the better,” Dad said as he led the way down the center aisle to the third row.

  The stage curtains were open, revealing George Mann on his knees, hammering at what was supposed to be the front door of Scrooge and Marley, judging by the hand-painted sign over his head. Several people in costume watched.

  “Looks like there might be a problem. Take a seat, Merry, and I’ll see what’s happening.” Dad slipped up the stairs at one side of the stage, and reappeared onstage seconds later. “Something the matter here, George?”

  George mumbled around the nails in his mouth.

  “Will you hurry up with that?” Desmond yelled. “I need to get this thing started. We’re ready to go.”

  “You need a collapsing set less.” Dad rummaged in George’s toolbox and came up with another hammer.

  Desmond buried his head in his hands.

  “Perhaps you can tell Ian to jump over the stairs, rather than walk down them,” Irene suggested.

  “That would work fine if we had Dave in the role,” Catherine snapped. “Ian’s more likely to stumble and break a leg.”

  “Will you shut up about Dave once and for all!” Desmond said.

  “Careful, old man.” Dave clattered the chains draped around him. Although made of paper-mache, they didn’t so much clatter as rustle. As well as the chains he wore a threadbare suit. With his broad shoulders, mop of thick dark hair, and general good looks, he looked nothing at all like the ghostly presence of a bitter old man.

  “Where’s your beard and wig?” Irene asked him.

  “They itch. I’ll put them on before I come out. To bring the house down with my one song and one scene.”

  “Leave those stairs for now,” Desmond said. “We can move around it tonight, and you can fix it tomorrow before final rehearsal.”

  “Better not,” Dad said. “I have to go out of town tomorrow, and I don’t get back until shortly before the curtain rises on Friday. George is more than capable, but if anything else needs fixing, two of us is better than one.”

  A woman walked out of the wings, probably a member of the chorus, dressed in a long brown dress under a fringed shawl and a white bonnet. “It doesn’t fit!” she shouted. “Irene, do something.”

  Irene jumped out of her chair. “What do you mean it doesn’t fit? I adjusted Eddie’s costume to fit your sons only yesterday.”

  “Aaron, get out here,” the woman said.

  A boy about eight years old edged onto the stage, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink with embarrassment. He wore a brown checked shirt under a brown jacket showing about three inches of wrist and lower arm, short pants that weren’t intended to be short, straining to fasten around his middle, and thoroughly modern sneakers. Presumably this was the new Tiny Tim. He looked even less suited for the role than Eddie Monahan had. “That was Anthony who was here yesterday for the fitting,” the woman said. “I told you the twins would alternate the role.”

  “By twins,” Irene said, “I thought they’d be the same size so they could wear the same costume.”

  “I never said they were identical twins. Aaron’s had a growth spurt.”

  “Then get Anthony down here!” Desmond yelled.

  “He has Boy Scouts tonight. Then a birthday party tomorrow.”

  Jackie came on stage. Her costume had been, as she’d asked, adjusted to best show off her assets. Mrs. Cratchit was supposed to be a working class woman, scarcely able to afford an adequate sized goose for her family’s Christmas dinner. Jackie’s dress was made of a dark green fabric that shimmered and swooshed as she walked. The elbow-length sleeves and the low-cut bodice had been trimmed with white lace. A pair of her own earrings, streams of silver that almost touched her shoulders, were in her ears and her long hair pinned up under a feathered fascinator. “I can’t work with a ringer,” she declared. “That’s not the boy I rehearsed our scenes with yesterday.”

  “Well, you’ll have to,” the boy’s mother said. “Aaron’s here now.”

  “I can’t have cast members changing willy-nilly!” Desmond yelled.

  “Oh, do sit down,” Irene said. “This is amateur theater, not even off-off-Broadway. You work with what you have. Although you’ll have to find some suitable footwear for the boy, whichever boy puts in an appearance, Andrea.”

  Desmond turned on the wardrobe mistress. His eyes almost popped out of his face. “You might not care, Irene, but let me remind you we have theater professionals coming opening night to see our show, and I expect it to be the very best it can be. No, I expect it to be better than it should be.”

  “So you keep endlessly reminding us.” My mother emerged from the wings. “Which, let me assure you, is doing nothing to calm people’s nerves.”

  “That ought to do it,” George said as Dad helped him struggle to his feet.

  “Better get Ian out here to give it a try,” Dad said. “Is he the only one who’ll be on the steps?”

  “No,” Mom said. “As Scrooge approaches front and center to deliver his opening lines, several members of the chorus climb the steps so as to be seen as they sing behind him.” Mom’s Ghost of Christmas Past costume was fabulous, I thought—a high-necked, floor-sweeping, unadorned white gown, with wide sleeves that flowed past her fingers, topped by a large-brimmed white hat decorated with white flowers with a hint of gold sparkles sprinkled through them. Her face was powdered stark white, her eyes thickly outlined in black, her lips a slash of red. The costume had been designed to fit over a dress so she could instantly slip out of it when she took center stage as Belle, Ebenezer’s lost love, for her grand solo. And then, back into the ghost getup for the next step of the journey through the old man’s memories.