“Before you do that … he’s spotted me. I’ll go and make friendly. Randy!” dad bellowed, as he marched across the lawn. “What brings you here on such a fine day?”

  Mayor Baumgartner’s smile grew even wider, if that was possible, and he thrust out a gloved hand. “Noel! Sorry we’re late. Jack here had some last minute calls to make. Business never stops for the likes of him, does it?” He walloped my dad on the shoulder. “Looks like a great party. I hear good things about this year’s play, and we wanted to see for ourselves. We might send some business your way.”

  “I’m afraid all this has nothing to do with me,” dad said. “My wife has a role this year.”

  Vicky sniffed in disapproval. “As if Muddle Harbor has any business to send anyone’s way. Never mind them, you two cute kids run along and play now. I can take care of anything that’s needed.” She made shooing gestures with her hands.

  Alan and I decided to wait for the crowd to clear, and hope they’d leave something for us. The children had abandoned Mattie at the call to dinner, and he was lying comfortably under the tree, his massive paws resting between his chin, alternatively snoozing and watching the festivities. I took a bottle of water to refill his bowl, slipped him a chunk of roast beef Vicky had thoughtfully provided for him, gave him a head scratch and told him he was a good boy, and then followed Alan to the drinks table.

  Alan grabbed a bottle of beer out of the container of ice, and I poured myself a glass of wine. The drinks, like the food, had been paid for by Catherine Renshaw. The wine and soda glasses were real glass, too, not plastic or acrylic as would better suit a picnic in the park.

  “Bring me another one of those,” Lloyd French shouted to Alan.

  Alan twisted the cap off the bottle he’d chosen for himself, and carried it over to the man. Lloyd was sitting in a folding chair, wrapped tightly in a blanket. His cheeks were red with cold, but otherwise his face was drawn and pale. Dark circles accented his watery eyes, and his breathing was ragged. He almost snatched the bottle out of Alan’s hand.

  “Thanks,” he grumbled. “If you see that son of mine, tell him I’m still waiting for something to eat.” He took a long glug of his beer and shook his head. “Too busy trying to impress all these fancy theater folks to see to his old man.”

  “I can—” I began.

  “Not your job to look after me, young Merry.” He looked around. “Where’s that boy got to now?”

  Alan and I exchanged glances and edged away. “Lloyd French has always been a man who likes to be in charge,” he whispered to me. “Being incapacitated, even mildly, is hard on him.”

  “He’s lucky his son agreed to move back and help out,” I replied. “Not every grown child can, or will, do that. Hum … you seem to have lost your beer.”

  Desmond Kerslake, the long-time director of the Players, was taking a bottle out of the cooler. “Nice party, Desmond,” Alan said. “Catherine’s done a good job.”

  Desmond took a drink before answering. The look on his face was as though someone had slipped a slice of lemon into his Christmas eggnog.

  “Catherine,” he said, “doesn’t stint. Not if it’ll get her noticed.” He stalked away.

  “There’s a story there,” Alan said to me. “One I do not want to hear.”

  My mom and another woman hadn’t gone for food. I took a step toward them, and then hesitated. The look on my mother’s face didn’t exactly speak of warm and friendly vibes. Alan, however, didn’t recognize the signals as well as I did, and he walked up to them before I could warn him away. All I could do was follow.

  “Aline, hi. Nice party,” he said.

  The tension at the corners of my mother’s eyes and the anger around her mouth disappeared in an instant, to be replaced with a radiant smile.

  “Alan! How lovely to see you, dear.” She leaned forward to receive a peck on the cheek, which he provided. “It’s been months since you’ve been around to the house for dinner. Merry, you must rectify that oversight shortly.”

  “I’ll get on that right away, Mom. But be warned, only the promise of Vicky’s baking was sufficient to tear Alan away from his workshop to come to this.”

  “A boy has to eat,” Mom said fondly. “Paula, have you met my daughter, Merry? She owns Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, on Jingle Bell Lane. And this is Alan Anderson, who makes the most divine things out of wood you’ve ever seen. Merry and Alan, this is Paula Monahan. Paula’s an important part of the theater family. Isn’t that lovely?”

  Probably only I, because I know my mother so well, heard the unsaid “not” at the end of that sentence.

  “Are you in the cast, Paula?” Alan asked. “Or crew?”

  I’d seen Paula around town, but I didn’t remember having ever met her and I didn’t think she shopped at my store. She was in her early forties, younger than most of the company, slightly taller than my five foot four, and slim beneath a padded black jacket. Heavy brown bangs peeked out from beneath her wool cap. “I play Mrs. Cratchit. My son, Eddie—he’s around here somewhere—is Tiny Tim.”

  “Important roles. Tim, in particular,” Alan said.

  Paula didn’t smile in acknowledgment. Instead she threw a not-friendly glare at my mother. “It is. As some people fail to understand. If you’ll excuse me. I need to ensure Eddie finds something other than cake to eat.”

  “Sounds like an idea,” Alan said once she’d gone. “I’m ready to hit the buffet. Merry?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  He needed no further encouragement and barely managed to refrain from breaking into a run as he crossed the lawn.

  “That was tense,” I said to my mom. “What’s with you and Paula?”

  Mom sighed. “All these years I have refrained from engaging in amateur dramatics, no matter how hard Desmond and Ron worked to entice me. At last I succumbed. Much to my regret.”

  Mom wasn’t exaggerating or bragging. The director and former artistic director of the Rudolph Community Theater Players came on pilgrimage once a year to the house to beg her to join the group. In her glory days, my mom had been a professional opera singer. Not just a singer, but a true diva. She’s sung solo parts with the Metropolitan Opera and at some of the best opera houses in Europe, including a sold-out performance of Madama Butterfly at La Scala, in which she sang Suzuki.

  With her travel and performance schedule, it had largely been my dad—solid, sensible, small-town dad—who’d raised my three younger siblings and me. Mom was retired now, and she kept her hand in teaching vocal lessons to local children and a few adults who’d always wanted to sing but never had the chance to learn formally. She might be retired, but she was still every inch the diva. She’d never had anything but scorn for amateur theatrics. To everyone’s surprise, probably hers most of all, she agreed to appear with the Rudolph Community Theater Players in this year’s production of A Christmas Carol. Desmond Kerslake, the director, told her they’d be doing the musical version, and they desperately needed her help.

  She not only would play the Ghost of Christmas Past, as well as Belle, Scrooge’s former fiancée, but she served as the musical coach. When I’d asked how she could play both the ghost and Belle when the ghost shows Scrooge his youth, she said, “With a bit of deft maneuvering from stage left to center and a flick of a cape. Belle has the strongest female song in the entire production, no one else is remotely capable of doing it.” She tried not to smile too widely as she said it.

  “This,” she now declared dramatically, “is going to be the death of me.” All that was missing was the back of the hand held to the forehead and the drop into the fainting couch. “If not of me, likely someone else.”

  Chapter Two

  “Don’t take it so seriously, Mom,” I said. “it’s just an amateur production.”

  “Believe it or not, dear, I went into this intending to take it in the spirit in which it is intended. As you point out, an amateur production for the enjoyment of the participants and the entertainment of tourists anxious to get into the spirit of Christmas. It is not I who’s being the diva here. Not that I ever acted the diva, of course.”

  I refrained from saying, Are you really that unself-aware? “You mean Paula? What’s she done?”

  Mom sipped her wine. Her cheeks had a pleasant rosy glow. Either she’d had more to drink this afternoon than she normally did or she was warming up and would never admit it. “I mean all of them. I’ve never seen such petty rivalries in all my days. Other than the time the Estonian baritone put bleach in the German soprano’s tea because he wanted his lover, the Japanese soprano, to be promoted from understudy into the role of Tosca. Imagine! The man was a total fool, as though she, the German, wouldn’t smell bleach in her tea before having a drink!”

  Despite myself, I said, “What happened then?”

  “The show was an abject failure. The German was dreadful. Simply dreadful. Far past her prime. They should have gone with the Japanese, but she, the German soprano, was sleeping with the company’s primary donor.”

  “I meant what happened to the Estonian baritone? Was he arrested? Was that the end of his career?”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. You’d recognize his name from his recent triumph at Covent Garden if I told it to you.”

  That was unlikely, but I didn’t say so. I get all my musical talent—and interest in grand opera—from my dad. Meaning I have none.

  “As for this miserable company … Paula seems to think Mrs. Cratchit needs a more dramatic persona than is normally portrayed. And a far better wardrobe to go with it. But most of all she wants the role of Tiny Tim to be expanded.”

  “Tiny Tim’s important.”

  “As he is. In small doses. He has only a couple of lines to say, including the one everyone knows.”

  “God bless us, everyone.”

  “See—even you know it. But it’s not enough for Paula. She has all sorts of suggestions for increasing Tim’s role. Including giving him a dance number when he throws off his crutch at the end. I dare not imagine it. The point being, dear, the kid can’t act. He’s awful. And far too big to be Tiny Tim.” She pointed behind me. “That’s him over there.”

  I turned. Eddie Monahan was ten years old but already topping five feet, and the word “pudgy” leapt instantly to mind. I’d earlier seen him piling his plate with sandwiches, and he was now demolishing his second round of dessert.

  “Agreed that Tim Cratchit’s supposed to be frail and on the point of death. That boy wouldn’t be cast in a Broadway production, but this is amateur and community theater, Mom. You can’t be picky.”

  “Perhaps I foolishly expected some degree of talent. Never mind that Catherine has ideas for the production, which rightfully fall in the realm of the director, and Desmond is not taking her suggestions well.”

  “Hey! Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Eddie tripped that little girl. She’s half his size, and he deliberately stuck his foot out. Her mother’s coming over. No, more likely to be her grandmother. She’s helping the girl up. She seems to be okay. Oops. Now the grandmother’s saying something to Eddie. Here comes Paula, ready for battle.”

  My mom and I watched the scene play out: the weeping girl; the boy trying (and failing) to look innocent; the girl’s indignant grandmother; the boy’s protective mother.

  “Irene Dowling,” Mom said. “She’s the wardrobe mistress, and I have to say that out of all the company, she’s the one with the most genuine talent. What she can do with a scrap of leftover cloth is amazing. Her only flaw is she’s not assertive enough. Every actor who’s ever stepped foot on a stage or movie lot wants a better costume. Never mind dealing with the expectations of directors as to what can simply not be accomplished with the time and budget allocated.”

  People nearby stopped to watch the scene, now threatening to grow into a full-blown altercation. A man came running across the lawn, as Paula accused the girl of being clumsy. I decided I didn’t care much for Eddie Monahan, no matter that he might be only ten years old. The smirk on his face as he watched the girl, tearfully huddled under her grandmother’s protective arm, was not pleasant.

  “Let it go,” the man said to Paula. I assumed he was Paula’s husband and father to the miscreant. He grabbed Eddie’s arm. “You apologize to Lucy.”

  The boy stuck out his tongue instead.

  “I said apologize. Or we’re leaving now.”

  “You’re overreacting, Kevin,” Paula said. “Eddie didn’t do anything. The girl fell. Children shouldn’t be running if they can’t bounce back from a fall.”

  “It was no accident,” Irene said. “Eddie tripped her. I saw it happen.”

  “Are you sure about that, dear?” Paula said. “You have been here for quite a while and not been shy to make use of Catherine’s excellent wine.”

  “Low blow,” Mom said to me.

  “Paula,” Kevin said. “Let’s have none of that. Eddie, are you going to say anything to Lucy, or are we leaving?”

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said in a ten-year-old voice.

  “As am I,” his father said.

  “Apology accepted,” Irene said. “From you, Kevin, if no one else.” She led the little girl away.

  Eddie sneered after them and then ran off in search of more desserts, which made me realize that if I wanted any food for myself, I’d better get moving. The boy’s father leaned into his mother’s face and spoke in a low voice. She snarled something in return and then marched away. Paula might have made a dig at Irene, but she headed directly for the bar in turn.

  “Charming family,” Mom said.

  My shop assistant, Jackie O’Reilly, joined Mom and me. “Aline, hi. Isn’t this great? So nice of Catherine to put this on, isn’t it? Merry, are you thinking of getting involved in the production?”

  “Absolutely and totally not. Alan and I came to give Vicky a hand.”

  This was Jackie’s second year with the theater group. Last year she hadn’t opened her mouth once, and this year she hadn’t even stepped in front of an audience yet, but stars were dancing behind her eyes, and her dreams were of taking her award-winning performance to Broadway, maybe even Hollywood.

  “Some non-Rudolph people have come to this,” Jackie said. “That’s great, isn’t it? Word is spreading far and wide about what a fabulous production this is going to be.”

  Randy Baumgartner, bearing an overloaded plate in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other, had cornered Catherine Renshaw. He ate and drank and talked all at the same time with such speed I wondered if he had a third, invisible hand. Catherine’s panicked eyes darted around, seeking escape, of which none seemed to be immediately forthcoming. His companion, the real estate guy, was engaged in what looked to be an intense, serious conversation with Dave French.

  “I heard,” Jackie continued, “Desmond’s invited some of his Broadway friends to opening night. Isn’t that exciting! I’m only in the chorus, but I hope they’ll notice me. Anyway, while I have you, Aline, I’m wondering if you’d be nice enough to put a word in with Irene about my costume. I’m thinking something a bit more … flattering would be good.”

  “You’re playing a Victorian washerwoman, Jackie, not Lady Mary Crawley. Or, perhaps more what you’re thinking, a streetwalker. Which is irrelevant, as I am not involved in costuming decisions.”

  “You have a nice costume.”

  “I’m Aline Steiner,” the diva said.

  “Okay. Just a suggestion. Have a nice evening.” Jackie ducked her head and scurried away.

  “Amateurs!” Mom said. “Now that he’s been fed, I might be able to tear your father away before anyone else asks me to improve their role.” She stalked off, and I went in search of my own dinner.

  Before I reached the food table, I glanced across the lawn to check on Mattie. A couple of small boys were edging nearer to him. He lay on the ground, watching them, eyes bright, tail slowly thumping. Eddie ran past me, heading toward them. I didn’t care for that stick he was waving in the air, and I hurried after him, intending to intervene. Children should never approach dogs they don’t know, but Mattie’s sheer size keeps most of them away. He might be big, but he’s as gentle as they come, but he’s still a dog and he will react like a dog if he thinks he’s being threatened.

  Eddie charged the little group with a whoop and lifted his stick. Mattie let out a woof and lumbered to his feet. Before I could yell a word of command—to either dog or boy—someone intervened.

  “Matterhorn, down,” said a perfectly calm voice. “I will handle this.” The dog dropped to the ground as though his legs had been kicked out from underneath him. “Put that stick down, young man, before I have to take it from you.”

  The stick dropped as fast as the dog had.

  Diane Simmonds had formed an almost uncanny bond with Mattie. When I first met her, she told me her parents trained dogs for TV and movies, and she’d grown up around them. Sometimes I had a niggle of jealousy that my dog was better behaved for her than he was with me.

  It would appear she had a similar effect on rowdy little boys. Diane Simmonds was the lead detective with the Rudolph Police Department, so I suspect she had a good deal of experience with rowdy little boys. Not to mention rowdy big boys.

  “You weren’t going to hit that dog, were you?” she said to Eddie.

  He mumbled something that might have been a no.

  “Glad to hear it. Off you go, now.”

  Eddie bolted.

  “If you want to pet the dog,” Simmonds said to the two wide-eyed boys who’d remained, “You need to speak to the dog’s owner first and ask permission. Here she is. Merry, hello.”

  “Thanks for … uh … this,” I said.

  Simmonds half-turned and beckoned to someone to join her. An older woman and a young girl stepped out from a row of bushes, brown and bare for winter. “Merry, I don’t think you’ve met my mother, Judith. Or Charlotte, my daughter.” The older woman had two sets of white skates thrown over her shoulder, and the girl carried her own. Their eyes were bright and cheeks glowed with the cold and the exercise. All three of them had the same small chin, huge green eyes, and curly red hair, although Judith’s was heavily streaked with gray, Charlotte’s was tied into a long braid, and Detective Simmonds’s was cut smoothly at the back of her neck.