“I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” I said.

  “I’m a businessman. I have a reputation to maintain. Actually, I have a reputation to build, seeing as to how I’m new in your fair town. Jim’s death had nothing to do with me, and I wouldn’t want anyone to think it did. So, I’m asking you, politely, to stay out of it. In Rudolph or in Muddle Harbor.”

  “Good night,” I said. I started walking, trying not to hurry toward the cheerful lights of the bandstand. Mattie trotted along behind me.

  Kevin Farrar made no attempt to stop us, and he said nothing more.

  * * *

  When at last we reached our house, Mrs. D’Angelo was sitting on her porch. She caught sight of us and jumped to her feet, waving and calling out. I waved back, but I said, “Let’s walk some more, Mattie.”

  Not that I was trying to avoid my landlady (a foolish endeavor at the best of times), but I had a lot to think about.

  I might be naive, but I considered Kevin’s attempt to threaten me, if it could even be called that, so weak and foolish, it was hard to believe he might have killed his father-in-law. Kevin admitted he’d asked Jim for money. He would have checked into Jim’s finances. Kevin had worked at an investment bank until recently, and he would likely have plenty of contacts in that world. Once Kevin realized Jim had no money, he’d have no reason to kill the man.

  If Kevin hadn’t killed Jim, someone else had. Why, I then had to wonder, was Kevin so eager to throw suspicion onto Mark? Could he be covering for someone? Cindy? Had Cindy killed her father and Kevin knew it, or did he suspect she had? She’d told me their only alibis were each other.

  As we walked, I tried to remember exactly what I’d been thinking about when Kevin stepped into my path. Trish and Louise and their ridiculous, childish battle in the bakery. That was it. Thinking of that reminded me of Trish following Cindy into Mrs. Claus’s and their not exactly joyful meeting.

  After the two women left the store, I’d been so busy I hadn’t had the opportunity to consider all of what happened between them, and what Cindy had told me. Jim Cole died without a will. Which didn’t much matter as he didn’t have anything to leave anyone.

  Dusk was settling over town, and a couple of the brightest stars had come out. On the other side of a row of houses, past the town path, the dark waters of the lake lapped against the shore. The air was soft and full of the scent of new growth, plants pushing themselves up out of the slowly warming soil, buds opening on the trees. One of the neighbors had given his lawn an early cut, and the lovely smell of freshly mowed grass curled around me. Mattie walked contentedly at my side, sniffing at the occasional tree or fire hydrant, but not in a mood to stop for a closer inspection. At first, I’d kept myself on alert, peering into shadows, straining my ears, hoping I wasn’t wrong about Kevin Farrar and he wasn’t following me with the intention of doing more than telling me to leave his affairs alone.

  But I sensed nothing, and most importantly, neither did Mattie.

  On such a lovely evening, my thoughts were focused on revenge, hatred, lies, and murder most foul.

  I briefly considered Trish might have killed Jim for the money she believed he had. But, as Cindy pointed out, the couple were divorced, and Jim had a living child. Trish should not have had any expectations of inheriting anything.

  Unless Jim had told Trish she was mentioned in his will. I reminded myself he was a not-nice man. On the other hand, no one claimed he was an idiot. He’d be unlikely to give a woman he was estranged from, and whose character he surely knew well, a reason to bump him off.

  It was still possible Trish had killed him, though. Had she come to this area hoping to talk him into getting back with her? Had he laughed at her, mocked her, maybe flaunted his much younger girlfriend in front of her? And then, had Trish decided to kill him, inheritance or not?

  The same logic applied to Louise. She believed Jim was, if not actually rich, then well-off. She wouldn’t have stayed with him otherwise, and surely he knew that. Did he tell her she was his heir, to keep her hanging onto the relationship?

  That was possible.

  Had I been too quick to dismiss Kevin Farrar, Cindy’s husband? He needed money. He told me he knew his father-in-law didn’t have any money, but had he only learned after Jim’s death about the true state of his finances?

  And what about Cindy herself? She knew her father had nothing to leave her. Most likely she’d only recently learned that. Following his death, his lawyer would have been in touch with her and let her know the true state of affairs. She didn’t seem all that bothered about it. She’d probably never expected anything from him in the first place. Which brought me to wondering how much anger she held against him for leaving her mother and herself to a life of poverty when he could have provided them with so much more.

  Enough anger to kill him?

  I didn’t think so. Killing a father, estranged or not, is a big step. Cindy might have struck wildly at him, releasing years of pent-up rage, but I didn’t believe she could hide what she’d done. Or even attempt to. She wouldn’t have run away, leaving Mark to find the body. She would have confessed immediately and hoped the court would have some sympathy toward her. Then again, as I’ve said, I’m a lousy judge of character. She might well have done precisely that—killed him in a fit of anger.

  I truly believed she was in the dark about what was going on with Kevin’s business. Was she that naive, or simply that trusting? I have no more financial savvy than anyone else, and I’d realized pretty quickly Kevin was in a lot of trouble. I thought of the first Mrs. Cole saving carefully and watching every penny. A good lesson for a young girl to learn, but it might have made Cindy too trusting when it came to financial affairs.

  Unless the business I’d found so easily was nothing but a front, and Kevin and Cindy were into something deeper and darker. Something they needed Jim’s money (what money they incorrectly believed he had) to get them out of. Or deeper into.

  I shook my head. Far too many instances of unless in this case.

  My phone buzzed and I checked the display. Vicky.

  “Hey, what’s up?” she asked.

  “Nothing much. Are you at home?” When I’d seen her name, my heart leaped into my throat, worried something bad had happened with the Jim Cole murder case, but as soon as I heard her voice, I relaxed. She sounded calm. Normal. “I’ve finished at the store. We had an amazing day. I’m walking Mattie now.”

  “I thought you might like an update on the Jim Cole case.”

  “Definitely. What’s happened?”

  “Diane Simmonds dropped by the house this morning. Around the time you and I were coming back from Muddle Harbor. Mark was in. She didn’t come right out and say he was in the clear—you know her—but she pretty much implied it. She’s building a case against Louise Ferguson.”

  “Wow. Why? How? What’s she got?”

  “All circumstantial so far, but they’re digging further. Louise rather foolishly brought herself to police attention with that incident at my place. The police then looked more closely at her. She has a record of minor embezzlement as well as stalking an ex-boyfriend to the point he got out a restraining order against her. The cops in Syracuse found a witness who says Louise was furious with Jim for what she called ‘holding out’ on her. Which the so-called friend thinks means Louise thought he wasn’t spending enough on her. Plus her alibi isn’t holding up. No one can positively place her at the time of Jim’s death or in the hour before or after. Plus, ta da …!”

  “Spit it, Vicky.”

  “The friend told the cops Louise has another boyfriend on the side.”

  “That must keep her busy.”

  “He’s someone her own age, according to the friend. Simmonds didn’t say anything else about the other guy, or even if she’s spoken to him, but Mark thinks she’s thinking Louise might have decided to get rid of Jim so she could be with the other guy, and hopefully have Jim’s money too.”

  “But Jim died without leaving a will.”

  “He did? How do you know that? My dad hasn’t come back to me with that info yet.”

  “Cindy told me. She was in the store earlier, making friendly, hoping I have some influence with my mom—”

  “As if.”

  “Precisely. Anyway, who came in when Cindy was there but none other than Trish herself. And not by coincidence either. I suspect she’s been following Cindy, waiting for the right time to approach. Trish wanted to be all besties, but Cindy was having none of it.” I told Vicky the rest of what happened.

  “Jim Cole had no money and no will,” she said when I’d finished. “Someone killed him for nothing. They are going to be seriously annoyed.”

  “We don’t know that was the reason for the murder, Vicky. Don’t forget that Jim was a reverse Santa Claus. He made enemies and spread ill will everywhere he went. But back to the subject at hand: if someone did kill him for what they thought he had, it would be unlikely to be Louise. She has no claim to anything of his, even less than Trish, who was a former wife.”

  “You know that. I know that. Did Louise? Maybe not. It’s unlikely good old Jim said to her, “Love you, babe, but I’m not leaving you a red cent.”

  “True. He probably did string her along. Can the police place Louise in Rudolph around the time?”

  “Reading between the lines, Mark doesn’t think so. Like I said, any evidence they have so far is circumstantial and based on a lot of hearsay. Her other boyfriend might have been in on it. That’s just me guessing; Simmonds didn’t say anything about him.”

  “Good to hear. I’m confident Simmonds will get her. Get them. She’s a good detective and can be mighty determined when she sets her mind to something.”

  “My wedding can go ahead, worry free!” Over the phone I heard the sound of her hands clapping. “Mark’s got workers coming next week to get started replacing the windows and the floorboards in what’s going to be our living room. I’m working on the book proposal at the moment, so I’d better get back at it. I need to come up with synonyms for delicious. Try and think of some will you.”

  “Tasty. Yummy. Good.”

  “Be slightly more imaginative, please, Merry. Oh—Russ has agreed to take some photos for me at no charge. As a wedding present, he says. He’s going to come into the bakery one day this week to do that.”

  “Sounds great. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I hung up. I walked home feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My mother had been surprised and pleased when I invited her to come dress shopping with me Tuesday morning. Which made me realize we hadn’t been shopping together since I’d last been in need of adult supervision.

  She hadn’t been so pleased when I asked her to meet me at ten, when the stores opened. “Ten o’clock? You mean in the morning?”

  “Yes, Mom. I mean ten in the morning. I’ve been taking a lot of time off from my own store, and I’ll be missing the whole day Saturday. Jackie’s getting delusions of grandeur, and I’m worried she’s about to ask for another raise.”

  “If she does, tell her no.”

  “She’ll threaten to quit.”

  “Let her threaten. She knows full well she’ll never get another job where she’s so indulged.”

  “Does everyone in town think I spoil Jackie?”

  “Yes. Jackie most of all.”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “If I must. We’ll go for a nice lunch after.”

  * * *

  My mom and I had fun. She didn’t try—not too hard, anyway—to press an outfit that would be more suitable for a Met Gala on me. “Suitable for a garden party at Buckingham Palace,” Mom instructed Jayne when we arrived on our mission.

  “We’re going to a wedding in Rudolph, New York,” I said.

  “The wedding of your closest and dearest friend in the world, Merry.”

  I soon found something I was delighted with. Light, colorful, summery. I agreed to have coffee with Mom before going back to the store, although I had to tell her I didn’t have time for lunch.

  With Easter weekend approaching, the streets were busy with shoppers. Most of the store windows were decorated in themes of blue and pink; plenty of flowers for spring, and eggs and bunnies for Easter. The Easter Parade wagon rumbled toward us, filled with laughing children and smiling parents. As there was no snow, the traditional Christmas sleigh had been fitted with wheels, but it was still pulled by two large horses, their manes festive with blue and pink ribbons. Local farmer and Rudolph institution George Mann was at the reins. George had refused, absolutely and completely, to dress as the Easter Bunny.

  “Shall we hop on the sleigh for the ride across town?” I suggested to Mom.

  “No,” she said flatly.

  And so we walked. Once we were settled at a table by the window in Cranberries, she cradled her latte and asked, “How’s Vicky’s cookbook coming?”

  “It’s been slow. She’s had so much on her mind lately, but now she’s focusing again and getting it back on track.”

  “Good. She works so hard, she deserves it to be a grand success. I’m excited about buying it. I hope the bookstore will put on a major event.”

  “Are you intending to make any of the things in it?” I said with a smile, already knowing the answer.

  “Of course not. It will be nice to display in the kitchen for the admiration of my friends when I tell them how close Vicky and I are.”

  “You’re jumping the gun, Mom. She doesn’t have a publisher yet. I sent emails to some of my publishing contacts in the city this morning, before meeting you, and I’m hoping someone will agree to have a look at her proposal. If they do, and if she gets the proposal finished, I’m sure they’ll love it. Christmas cookbooks are hugely popular.”

  “Hopefully not too popular. It’s a crowded field,” said the woman who’d never opened a cookbook in her life. My dad has always been the cook in our family. “Vicky’s book needs to have that something special to stand out from the rest.”

  “It will. Not only because of her baking, but the whole Christmas Town thing should help.”

  “There are only so many ways you can make a mince tart, dear.”

  “Vicky knows the best way. Why are you suddenly being down about this? A minute ago you were looking forward to displaying your own copy.”

  Mom peered at me from over the rim of her cup. “I’m sorry if I am. I’ll admit I know absolutely nothing about the world of publishing in general, and publishing baking books in particular. But I do recall a number of years ago when a soprano of middling talent brought out a biography she’d spent years working on after she retired. Her book was published the very same week as a biography of a major baritone. Not only was he the better-known singer, but his life consisted of the stuff tabloids love. The soprano’s book was all about her happy family and the joys of being part of the opera community. Her book was by far the better written, but it was a flop. His sat on the bestseller lists for a year.”

  “That wouldn’t be the book you bought as a Christmas gift for everyone you know, would it? Because he had some nice things to say about you?”

  She colored slightly. “I forget the details now. All I am saying, dear, is I wouldn’t like Vicky to get her hopes up for a major success.”

  “Hopes are necessary, Mom. Look at you. You hoped to be an opera star. And thus you were.”

  She sipped her coffee. A light shone behind her eyes, and her grin was wicked. “So I was. And unlike the aforementioned soprano, I didn’t see the good in everyone. The stories I could tell if I decide to write a book. Which I have no intention of ever doing.”

  * * *

  That night I was curled up on the couch, searching for something to watch on TV. I felt restless, for no reason I could identify, so I wanted to find something I didn’t have to pay much attention to. I settled on a baking competition show. A light rain had begun shortly after I got home; drops pattered on the windows, and wind rustled the still-naked branches of the trees. Mattie snoozed on the rug in front of the TV, and I enjoyed a glass of water. Earlier I’d microwaved my dinner.

  Another exciting night in the life of Merry Wilkinson.

  I soon got bored with the program. Some of the creations were so far beyond what the average baker could achieve they might as well have been made with magic. That got me thinking about Vicky’s book. She was focusing on the sort of festive, holiday desserts any reasonably competent person could make at home with a bit of extra time and effort. I hoped she’d manage to get it finished. The book was sure to be a hit. I might even try my hand at making something from it myself, to take to a potluck or family dinner. My mom had pointed out that even if Vicky finished the book and it was as good as I expected, success was not guaranteed. Much of how well it did would depend on the competition, and new baking books were coming out all the time.

  I shot upright.

  Mattie jerked awake and barked.

  Competition. New baking books.

  Could it be?

  I grabbed my iPad and made a quick check on the internet of something I needed to know.

  Yes, it could be.

  I grabbed my phone and called Vicky. It rang a few times, and then she answered, sounding sleepy. “What’s up? It’s kinda late, Merry.”

  “Is it? Sorry.” I glanced out the window. All was dark.

  “I’m in bed reading. About to switch out the light.”

  “Is Mark home?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m coming over. I’ve thought of something that might be important.”

  “Missing-sleep important?”

  “Potentially.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  I told Mattie to guard the apartment, grabbed my purse and keys, and ran downstairs. Vicky’s new house was within comfortable walking distance, but the rain was getting stronger, and I didn’t want to take the time. I got my car out of the garage and tore down the street.