“Better get them all climbing up and down, then,” Dad said. “To test it out.”

  “This is a nightmare,” Desmond moaned.

  “You think this is bad,” Mom said. “You should have been backstage at La Scala for the opening of Tosca. None other than the prime minister of Italy, a representative from the Vatican, and the American ambassador were in the audience, and—”

  “Perhaps a story for another time, Aline.” Dad gave her a fond smile.

  “Chorus!” Desmond yelled. “Take your places on those steps. I know it’s not time yet, but I want them tested out.”

  Various cast members had gathered in the wings, waiting for rehearsal to start. They trooped forward now. They looked great in a variety of long dresses and aprons, capes, black trousers and frock coats, tall hats or bonnets, Some hurried forward, beaming from ear to ear, excited to play their role. Others hedged nervously, overcome by anxiety.

  Ian eyed the steps. “Are you sure these are safe?”

  “That’s what you’re going to find out,” George said. “Get on with it. I haven’t got all day here.”

  Tentatively Ian climbed the steps to stand at the doorway of Scrooge and Marley, constructed to look as though the building was falling down through neglect and a failure to pay to have it maintained. There were only two stairs. If the set did crumble beneath him, I doubted it would do him much harm, but it would be embarrassing in front of a full theater. When nothing gave way, Ian confidently stamped on the top step.

  “Now the rest of you,” Desmond said.

  Members of the chorus leapt into place. Some tapped nervously at the boards, some jumped up and down as though trying to make it collapse. It held.

  Dad slapped George on the back, and the older man beamed. “I’ll be off. Call me, Noel, if you need anything.” He threw a look at Catherine and Desmond. “Seein’ as to how my homemade wine isn’t good enough for your fancy party.”

  Dave laughed. “Imagine serving that plonk to the audience we’re expecting. I can see the reviews now: ‘French’s stellar performance as Jacob Marley, the sole highlight of the night, spoiled by alcohol poisoning.’”

  My mom turned on him, her face such a mask of fury her makeup threatened to crack. “I’ve had about enough of you. You and Desmond both. This is an amateur theatrical production, and all these people are volunteers. They’ve joined this group to have fun and to promote our town. Not to be your props in a ridiculous attempt to impress some supposed Broadway big shot. Friday night is not your night, either of you. It’s for all of us. All of them.” She lifted her arms to indicate the cast, every one of them watching her. White fabric flowed around her like fog or smoke. “It is not going to be anyone’s big break. And you, Catherine, need to get off your high horse as well.”

  Ian let out a bark of laughter and clapped enthusiastically. “That’s telling ’em, Aline.”

  Catherine’s eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. She threw Ian a poisoned look before turning on my mother. “Well, pardon me for wanting to get the best performance we can.”

  “And you will get the best performance these people can deliver. With all of their heart and soul. But they can only deliver what is possible, given the circumstances. You, Catherine, need to decide if you want to be the artistic director of a company that doesn’t need one, but does appreciate your financial largesse, or to go back to New York, where you seem to think you belong, and try to get your foot in the door there.”

  “Now see here, this has gone far enough.” Bruce Renshaw had taken a seat halfway back. He stood up.

  “Shut up,” Catherine said. “I can fight my own battles.”

  Bruce dropped back down, a somewhat sheepish expression on his face.

  “Battle?” Mom said. “This is no battle. I am expressing my opinion. You may disagree, or not.” She stepped backward and went to stand next to Dad. He put his arm around her shoulders.

  Her in full makeup and ghost costume. Him in ugly Christmas sweater, still holding his hammer. My parents really were a study in contrasts.

  All was quiet for a long time.

  “I don’t wanna be in this dumb play anyway,” Aaron whined. “This stupid costume is stupid.”

  “Be quiet,” his mother snapped.

  Desmond stepped forward. He puffed out his chest. “Let us begin. Everyone, full rehearsal will commence in five minutes. Please take your places. Noel, can you lower the curtain, please.”

  “Got it,” Dad said.

  “I want one full run-through, start to finish. The way—” he coughed, “it’s done on professional stages.”

  Ian held up one hand. “Before we do that. You’ve forgotten someone, Desmond.”

  The director looked around. “Who?”

  “Paula, of course. Paula was an important member of this troupe for many years. She loved to act, she loved Rudolph. She was hoping her young son, Eddie, would follow her example.”

  Irene swallowed a retort.

  “I think a moment to remember Paula would not be amiss,” Ian said.

  “An excellent idea, Ian,” Mom said. “You’re quite right.”

  “Very well,” Desmond replied impatiently. “A moment.”

  The scattering of people in the theater seats got to their feet, the Muddites among them. On stage, people bowed their heads or folded their hands. A couple of women in the chorus put their arms around each other. Aaron shifted his feet and tugged at his mother’s dress. She swatted his hand away.

  The silence lasted about ten seconds before Desmond cleared his throat. “Now that that’s done, it reminds me. Who’s the understudy for Mrs. Cratchit?”

  “I am,” Jackie said. “I mean I was. After Paula’s tragic demise, I stepped into the role. I’m fully prepared and excited about making my—”

  “I mean the new understudy.” The cast all exchanged glances and shrugged. “Don’t we have one?”

  “Looks like we don’t,” Ian said. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters. Unlike what some people might think—” A poisonous look at my mom, which she returned with sweet smile. “We need to have actors available if needed. Particularly for Mrs. Cratchit.”

  “Why particularly for her?” someone asked.

  “In case our current Mrs. C. is arrested for murder, of course.” Desmond turned to Jackie. “You are the prime suspect, isn’t that correct?”

  Someone gasped. Dad said, “that’s unnecessarily blunt, Desmond.”

  Jackie blinked rapidly. Tears filled her eyes. The woman next to her, carrying a mop and pail, gave her a sideways glance and edged slightly way.

  Jackie burst into tears and ran off stage, tripping over her long skirts as she fled.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Surprisingly, the rehearsal went well after all that,” I said.

  “Maybe next year they should put on Black Christmas. Get the mood right,” said Vicky. Do you remember when we were fourteen and a bunch of us from school snuck out of town to catch it in Muddle Harbor, because it was banned in Rudolph?”

  “I remember. It was absolutely dreadful. Not worth incurring our parents’ wrath.”

  “Kept me awake for weeks.”

  “The worst was Dad sadly shaking his head in disappointment and telling me that movie was contrary to the Christmas spirit we know and love in Rudolph. All of which is beside the point.”

  “Before you get to the point, pass me that cutter, will you? The big one.”

  I handed Vicky the largest of her metal gingerbread figures. It was midafternoon on Thursday, and I’d escaped from the store to grab a quick lunch at Victoria’s Bake Shoppe. Traffic coming into town and on Jingle Bell Lane was clogged, the sidewalks were packed, and Mrs. Claus’s had been hopping all day. We’d had more snow last night, and the snowplows and homeowners with their shovels and snowblowers had been out early. As had been Mrs. D’Angelo, armed with her own shovel, when I left for work. She’d known (of course she had) that I’d been at rehearsal last night and wanted to hear every salacious detail. I escaped on the grounds of a busy day ahead.

  Which hadn’t been a lie.

  Even at three in the afternoon, the lineup at the bakery had been so long, I’d snuck in the back way to get my order. I found Vicky elbow deep in gingerbread dough and briefly told her about last night’s rehearsal. The scent of warm pastry wafting out of the oven, of sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg rising from Vicky’s dough, and curried butternut soup simmering on the stove filled the room.

  I breathed it all in. The smells of Christmas. Is anything better? “I suppose it’s natural enough,” I said. “Nerves are stretched to a breaking point. Everyone’s on edge. After last year’s flop, they need this year’s production to be a success. Different people have different reasons for being involved in the show and thus differing expectations of what they want to get out of it. Such as young Aaron who doesn’t want to be in the play at all, yet he managed to give an adequate performance as Tiny Tim. Mom gave Desmond and Dave a stern talking to. And, not incidentally, Catherine as well.”

  “I wish I’d been there to see it. Was Jackie okay? That was a mean thing for Desmond to say in front of everyone.” Vicky worked steadily as she chatted. She rolled out the dough to a thick rectangle and began cutting out the human-like shapes. Vicky didn’t believe in overly decorated cookies: after they were baked she’d add a touch of icing to represent eyes and mouths and just a hint of clothing.

  “I’m beginning to not like Desmond all that much,” I said. “He’s as self-centered as the rest of them. I know he’s under pressure, but really, that was uncalled for. As for Jackie, she recovered after a few minutes of me consoling her. More of those stretched nerves. She was more upset thinking Desmond wanted to kick her out of the part than the suggestion that she might be arrested for murder any minute. She did an okay job. I might think her acting a bit over the top, but at least she remembered all her lines, and as Mom went to great pains to remind them, it is amateur theater. I’ll admit I didn’t stay until the end. I left after the Ghost of Christmas Past had done her bit.”

  Vicky scooped pink icing into a bag. One of her assistants lifted a sheet of fragrant individual-sized turkey pies out of the large oven.

  “You’re busy here, I’m busy there,” I said. “I’ll be off. Thanks for this.” I picked up the hefty bags of food I’d called ahead to have prepared for me. Along with a sandwich for my lunch and cookies as treats for my hardworking staff, I had soup and a bacon and spinach quiche to take to Alan’s for a late dinner tonight. The store wouldn’t close until nine thirty, but Alan said he’d be working late himself.

  * * *

  My phone rang at midnight. Alan and I were curled up on the couch watching an old James Bond movie with Pierce Brosnan as 007. Mattie snoozed on the rug in front of the fire, and Ranger napped with one eye open. Before dinner we’d had a long walk in the nighttime winter woods, to shake off the stresses of the working day, as fresh snow fell on our heads and shoulders and covered the naked branches of the trees and the rushing waters of the creek.

  “Who on earth would be calling at this time of night?” I put down my mug of hot chocolate and struggled, reluctantly, out of Alan’s arms to check the phone. My heart gave a jolt, and I was immediately pulled out of my comfortable languor when I saw the name on the display. “Mom. What’s wrong?”

  “Merry.” Her voice trembled in a way I’d never heard before. “Someone’s … I think … someone is in the house.”

  I swung my legs off the couch and sat upright. “Now? You mean they’re there now?”

  Alan took one look at my face and leapt to his feet. In the background, James drove far too fast through crowded city streets as pedestrians ran for cover and vegetable carts were upturned. Alan grabbed the remote and froze the screen, leaving 007’s expensive sports car suspended in midair.

  “Have you called the police?” I asked.

  “No. I’m … not entirely sure.”

  “Do that. Now. Never mind, I’ll call them. You get out of the house.” I jumped off the couch and ran for my coat, boots, and car keys. “I’m on my way.”

  “I think they’ve gone. I don’t hear anything more.”

  “You can’t be sure of that, Mom. If it’s not safe to leave your bedroom, go into the bathroom and lock yourself in.”

  Alan beat me to the door, snatching his keys off the hook as he passed. “I’ll drive.”

  We were out of the house before Mattie and Ranger knew what was happening. Their questioning barks followed us to Alan’s truck.

  “I’m hanging up now and calling 911,” I said. “Alan and I are on our way.”

  Alan didn’t have to be asked to step on it. Snow had continued to fall when we were in the house, but his truck was used to the conditions. Fortunately plows had been at work on the highway leading to town, and he could push past the speed limit. “If a cop tries to stop me, they can follow us,” he said as we tore down the dark, empty road.

  I called 911 and told the operator what Mom had told me. I gave her the address and she said, “I’ll have a patrol car there as soon as possible.”

  We arrived before the cops. The street was quiet, most of the houses wrapped in darkness, holiday decorations switched off for the night. Streetlamps shone on swirling flakes of snow. Alan pulled into the driveway, and I was out of the truck before he’d come to a complete halt.

  I ran around the back, heedless of his cries of, “Merry, wait!”

  The lamp over the kitchen door was off. I fumbled on my chain to locate the right key and fumbled more to get it in the lock. Then I had it and the door flew open. “Mom! We’re here!”

  Alan grabbed my arm, “Merry. You have to wait for the police. The intruder could still be in the house.”

  “But my mom. I have to see to my mom.”

  His blue eyes stared into mine for a few seconds. I hesitated. I was still gripping my phone in my hand. It buzzed, and I was so startled I almost dropped it. Instead, I stabbed at the button to answer. Mom’s voice was so soft I could barely hear. “I hear voices downstairs. Is that you, Merry?”

  “Yes, we’re here. Alan’s with me. The police are on their way.”

  “I’m in the bedroom. I think … I’m pretty sure he … they … whatever … are gone.”

  “I’m coming up,” I said.

  I shook Alan’s arm off and ran through the kitchen, heading for the hallway and the stairs leading to the second floor.

  The hallway was unexpectedly chilly; a strong, icy draft blew against my face. I ignored it and took the stairs two at a time. I heard Alan’s footsteps behind me as he spoke into his own phone, telling the police we were in the house.

  I charged down the hallway and into my parents’ room, yelling, “Mom!”

  The closet door slowly opened and my mother stepped out. “Merry, Alan, good evening,” she said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  In the distance, sirens broke the silence of the neighborhood.

  “I’ll go down and meet them,” Alan said. “Your mom might like a cup of tea, Merry.”

  “What an excellent idea,” Mom said. She was dressed in a peach floor-length satin nightgown with a lacy décolletage. Her feet were bare, the toes painted a cheerful bright pink. She looked down at herself. “Hand me that robe, will you, dear. If I’m to receive visitors in my nightwear I should try to look as presentable as possible.”

  I studied her face. “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “I’m fine dear. Now.” She gave me what she thought was an encouraging smile as she put her hand to her heart. I couldn’t help but notice the hand was shaking. Not as calm and collected as she wanted me to think. “I had a fright, that’s all.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  From downstairs came the sound of boots hitting the floor and several people talking at once.

  “Let’s join the others, shall we,” I suggested. I took her arm, and she let me lead the way.

  We found Candy Campbell and Officer Williams at the bottom of the steps with Alan. “We’re going to search the house, Mrs. Wilkinson,” Candy said. “Is that okay with you?”

  “Please do. Although I’m confident whoever was here has gone.”

  “You shouldn’t have come in by yourselves,” Candy said to me. “You should have waited for us.”

  “My mother needed me,” I said. “I didn’t know how long you’d be.”

  She didn’t look as though she completely agreed with me, but she let it go.

  “Wait outside until we give you the all clear,” Williams said. “It’s cold, but maybe you can wait in a car.”

  “My truck,” Alan said.

  “There’s a strong draft in the hallway,” I said. “As though a window’s open. That’s not normal, not at this time of year. Alan, take Mom outside, please, and I’ll show the police what I mean.”

  I ran down the hallway without waiting for anyone to agree. Or not. Mom’s music room is an extension specifically built onto the back of the house for that purpose. She used to rehearse there when she was performing, and it now serves as her classroom and studio. In order that her students can come and go without tramping through the house, French doors open onto a flagstone path that curls around the house to join up with the front walkway. The door to the music room was open and a strong cold wind blew through. “Mom would never leave a window open in these temperatures,” I said to Candy and her partner.

  They exchanged glances and nodded. Williams jerked his head at me, telling me to stand aside. I did so. My heart pounded in my chest.

  Candy shoved the door open with a shout and her partner ran in. No one screamed, shots did not ring out, so I gathered my courage around me and ventured in after them. The piano stood silently in its corner, dust cover in place; an oil painting of Mom as Carmen hung above it. The laptop and speakers were untouched, and the rows of books and bound sheet music on the shelves lining the walls did not appear to have been disturbed. Framed posters from Mom’s performances in her glory days covered the walls, and a bust of Mozart stared at us from the top of a bookcase.