I took one step forward, laid down my phone, and stepped back. The screen went dark.

  “Now you,” he ordered.

  The panic on Mrs. D’Angelo’s face only increased, if that was possible. Which was worse for her? I wondered. Being locked in the pantry—again—or losing touch with her lifeline? But she didn’t argue, and she took the phone out of her coat pocket and placed it next to mine.

  “See how easy that was,” Graham said. “You keep doing what I tell you, and we’ll be fine here.”

  “You didn’t know someone was locked in the pantry, did you?” I said. “When you killed Raquel?”

  “Raquel. All these years and the stupid girl hadn’t changed a bit. As self-centered and selfish as ever. I asked her, politely, to let me use the house for a day or two. It was my aunt’s house too. She said no. She said she had business to conduct here. I could only imagine what sort of business she was up to.” He was getting jumpy now, shifting the hammer from one hand to another, his left eye twitching.

  “You were wrong about that,” I said. “Instead, she and her friend were literally printing money.”

  He laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Yeah. Coulda knocked me down with a feather when I heard that on the radio. I shoved her down the stairs and didn’t even go down there to check. I should have. Instead, I left all that fake money for the cops.”

  “Why did—?”

  “Enough talk.” He lifted the hammer high above Mrs. D’Angelo’s shoulder, but he kept his eyes on me. “Move, both of you, now. Walk on your own two feet, or you’ll make me have to drag you in. And that’s easier to do if you’re dead.”

  Not the Christmas Eve I had planned, but I decided to do as he said. I had little choice. “It’s okay, Mabel,” I said. “I’ll be with you.”

  “Merry … no.” Her voice was very soft, the tremor obvious.

  I stood near the pantry, facing toward the sliding doors and the deck beyond. Graham and Mrs. D’Angelo faced me. Behind them, outside, something moved quickly and silently across the deck. I tried to keep my face impassive. The lamp over the sink was on, the crack in the blinds letting out light. To anyone standing outside in the dark, we’d be as lit up as my mother had been when she performed as the Ghost of Christmas Past in the musical version of A Christmas Carol last year. I desperately tried to think of something to keep Graham talking. “Jean-Claude’s disappeared, did you know that? I expect he’ll be back, and he’ll come looking for you. Not only did you kill his lover and business partner, you caused his operation to be shut down.”

  “I don’t even know who that is, but let him come. I’ll be long gone. I’m finally going to be getting as far away from Muddle Harbor and Rudolph as it’s possible to get. At last. I’ve wasted a lot of years waiting for my chance.”

  Graham had not locked the sliding door behind us. I saw it move, ever so slightly.

  Keep talking, keep talking. Keep him looking at you, not at the door.

  “You really are a fool, if you think that,” I said. “You won’t get as far as the town line before the cops are on you. And with what? A bag full of old bills? You can’t buy an airline ticket with cash, did you know that?” I didn’t know if that was true or not, but I took a guess Graham didn’t either. He was no criminal mastermind, just a man who’d been disappointed in his teenage expectations and had nursed a grievance ever since. The door edged open a few more inches.

  His lips tightened. As did his grip on the hammer. “You don’t know what I can do. Guess it’s time I showed you.”

  “Hey, Graham! Catch.” Vicky Casey flew into the kitchen, her arms laden with weapons. She yelled and began throwing … snowballs?

  Graham whirled around. Instinctively, like any kid on a winter playground, he lifted his arms and crossed his hands over his face. He yelped and ducked as hard white lumps peppered him like birdshot. Mrs. D’Angelo screamed and collapsed. I ran forward, tripped over my landlady’s legs, and crashed into Graham. He lost his grip on the hammer, and it flew across the room. I gave him a good, hard shove and he went down. I leapt on top of him and lay there winded, gasping for breath, as he yelled and swore and tried to get in position to give me a solid punch.

  “Get up. Get up, Merry,” Vicky called. “I’ve got this.”

  Graham shoved at me. I rolled away and staggered to my feet.

  Vicky had scooped up the hammer, and she brandished it high. “Stay where you are!” she ordered.

  Graham whimpered and slithered backward on his rear end until he bumped into the cabinets.

  I grabbed my phone and pressed the emergency button.

  “Done that already,” Vicky said calmly. “The dispatcher said help is on the way, but it didn’t look as though I should wait for them.” Careful to keep her distance, she leaned over and spoke clearly and distinctly to Graham. “They’ll be here soon enough, and we don’t mind waiting, now do we?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sirens came screaming down our street. I told the dispatcher to tell the police to come to the back of the house.

  Candy Campbell was through the door first, gun drawn, shouting, “Everyone down!” As Graham was already “down” and I didn’t consider myself to be a suspect, I stayed where I was, as did Vicky.

  “Welcome,” Vicky said. “Obviously not your normal Rudolph Christmas Eve party.”

  Candy looked around the kitchen. At the remains of shattered, melting snowballs and broken glass littering the floor. At Vicky, fierce and wild-eyed, expression determined, brandishing a hammer as though she were Xena Warrior Princess with her sword, although incongruously wearing her party finery of a dress with a pink tulle skirt. At Mrs. D’Angelo sitting on the floor. At me, also in my party finery, telling my landlady to take big deep breaths, in and out, in and out. At Graham Johannesen, cowering against the wall, whimpering something about him only wanting what was rightfully his.

  Then other officers were in the kitchen and a medic was helping Mrs. D’Angelo stay calm. Graham was hauled to his feet, cuffed, cautioned, bundled out, and taken away. He kept his head down, avoiding my eyes, and he didn’t say another word.

  “I hope you don’t have to call Detective Simmonds,” I said to Candy when all was under control again. Reasonably under control, at any rate. “It is Christmas Eve, and she has a young child.”

  “I’ll let her know what’s happened here, but she probably won’t need to talk to the suspect tonight. He doesn’t look in all that great shape anyway, so we’ll have to call a doctor to come and have a look at him. What happened here?” She studied the rapidly melting snow on the floor. “Looks like you had a snowball fight.”

  “Very observant of you, Officer,” Vicky said. “We did, as it happens. Fortunately, thanks to growing up in a winter climate with countless numbers of cousins, I am adept at the art.”

  “Huh?”

  Vicky linked her fingers together and stretched her arms out in front of her. “The old skills never leave you.”

  Candy shook her head. I gave her the bare bones of the story while more officers streamed into the house, preparing to do all they had to do to gather evidence and secure the scene. No matter it was Christmas Eve.

  “That should be okay for tonight,” Candy said when I finished. “The detective will need a full statement from you both, so she’ll likely give you a call tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to have a quick look at one thing first,” I said. “Okay if I go into the rest of the house?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Great. Won’t be long.” I left the kitchen at a rapid pace, and Vicky followed. Two police officers stood in the living room, not quite sure what they were looking at. A pack of exceptionally large moles might have been let loose in here. Another hammer, a crowbar, and an axe leaned against the wall beneath the window. In an old house like this, the original flooring was a gorgeous red maple, wide planked, naturally streaked and scarred. As was the custom in the twentieth century, that lovely old wood had been covered with carpeting. Tonight, the carpeting had been roughly torn and yanked up and the floorboards beneath either pried up or smashed through.

  The police stood in a circle, gazing down into one of the holes. A large sports bag, zipper open, was at their feet.

  I crossed the floor rapidly but carefully, dodging gaps, and joined them. I felt Vicky behind me.

  I looked down. The hole was full of clear plastic bags, the type used to wrap meat for the freezer. Each bag was stuffed with paper. Green and brown paper, each piece cut to the same size.

  “Oh my gosh!” Vicky said.

  “That’s a good way of putting it,” one of the cops said. “I wonder how much is in there.”

  “Do you think it’s real?” another asked. “Wasn’t this place used for a counterfeiting operation recently?”

  “It’s real,” I said.

  “Santa’s storeroom,” Vicky said. “Hold on. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  She ran past Candy Campbell and Mrs. D’Angelo as they came into the living room. Curious, the medics followed them.

  Everyone stared into the hole.

  If the Grinch had taken advantage of this moment to drop down chimneys and raid Christmas trees up and down Broad Street, no one would have stopped him.

  “That looks like money,” someone said. “Cold hard cash.”

  “That it does,” another replied.

  “Must be thousands. Tens of thousands.”

  “How long do you suppose it’s been down there?” Candy asked at last.

  “Forty years or more,” Mrs. D’Angelo said. “It would have stopped being added to ten years ago. The previous homeowner didn’t use banks.”

  “They would have wished they’d used one if this place ever caught fire,” a cop said.

  “Or if someone ripped up the floorboards,” I said.

  Vicky came back, swinging my tote bag. “Speaking of Santa, look what he dropped on his way down the chimney of this house. I took the liberty of having a peek, and I believe this one can be opened early.” I’d wrapped my dad’s gift with little imagination, dropped it into a store-bought gift bag, and tied it with a ribbon. Easy to tell it was a bottle by the size and weight.

  Vicky pulled it out and held it up triumphantly. “The good stuff. Excellent choice, Merry.” She twisted off the cap and handed the bottle to Mrs. D’Angelo.

  “Only to steady my nerves, you understand.” My landlady accepted it and took a healthy swig. She swallowed, said, “Very nice,” and drank some more. She passed the bottle to me. I’m not a whiskey drinker, but I figured just this once I could give it a try.

  I have to say, I didn’t like it much. Maybe it’s better not consumed directly from the bottle.

  I handed it to Vicky, and she took it.

  The medics and cops watched her enviously.

  “I hope you’re not driving tonight, Ms. Casey,” Candy said. “Or I will have to call my colleagues and request a RIDE check.”

  “Spoilsport.” Vicky took a second swig and put the top back on the bottle. “Better leave some for the gift recipient anyway.”

  “Get out of here,” Candy said, “before I arrest you for interfering in a crime scene.”

  We turned to go, and Candy said, “Oh, Merry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  I grinned at my old nemesis. “Merry Christmas to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mrs. D’Angelo insisted she didn’t need to go to the hospital, so the medics left without her, and Vicky and I walked her home. I repeated my suggestion she join us this evening, but she said she would be fine. All she wanted was to put her feet up, make a cup of tea, and watch The Muppet Christmas Carol. And, if I wouldn’t mind, maybe I could leave her a few inches of that lovely whiskey. To help settle her nerves.

  I did so, and Vicky and I left for the party.

  In the Johannsen house, as it would likely be known for the remainder of time, all the lights were on. Police vehicles were parked every which way out front. It had started to snow again; lovely soft fat flakes caught in the blue and red lights of the cruisers. In houses up and down the street, curtains in front windows were pulled back to show off brilliantly lit Christmas trees. For once not many people came out to see what was going on. In Rudolph, it was Christmas, and nothing could be more important than that.

  “What are you going to tell your dad?” Vicky asked me as we walked through the empty streets. Under Candy’s watchful eye, Vicky had wisely decided to leave her car where it was for the night.

  “I’m hoping nothing. No one will be listening to the radio or checking social media. Hopefully they haven’t invited anyone tonight who’ll get a breathless call from Mrs. D’Angelo, so with luck, they won’t find out about it until tomorrow.”

  “I meant about his present. He’ll think you’ve drunk half of it yourself.”

  “Oh. That. Did you get him something?”

  “Of course. A book about the world’s greatest fishing spots. Lots of pictures.”

  “Say it’s from us both.”

  “You mean from Mark and me and you?”

  “Might look like I forgot, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’ll give him half a bottle and tell him a very good story comes with it, but he’ll have to wait until tomorrow to hear it.”

  Vicky laughed as we passed the brilliantly lit bandstand. “Nothing like going to bed on Christmas Eve with dreams about what your present is going to be. Is Alan meeting us there?”

  “That’s another story.” I filled her in on the skunk incident, and she laughed again as we turned onto the street I’d grown up on.

  No one ever knows how many people are going to show up at my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. Tonight, the street was lined with cars, and more filled the driveway. Laughter, music, and light spilled out of the house. The drapes were pulled back to display the huge, elaborately decorated Fraser fir standing in pride of place in the bow window, decorations sparkling, tiny white lights twinkling. The living room was packed with bodies.

  “The chances,” Vicky said, “of not one person here tonight hearing about what happened have dropped to nil.”

  I carried my tote bag of gifts, and Vicky had grabbed her offerings out of the trunk of the Miata. As we approached the front path, the door to the house flew open and Russ Durham bolted out, pulling on his coat and hopping up and down, trying to get his foot into his boot, as he sprinted in the opposite direction from us.

  “Yup,” Vicky said. “They know. Good thing Russ didn’t see us coming.”

  We watched as his car careened down the road, going at a decidedly unsafe speed considering the snowy conditions.

  “Before we go in,” I said, “and we find ourselves swept up in a wave of questions, can I say thank you?”

  “For what?”

  “For saving me. For saving us. I can’t be sure Graham wasn’t going to kill us after all. Mrs. D’Angelo was not going to step into that pantry willingly, and I fear what he would have done then.”

  She linked her arm through mine. “No need to thank me. That’s what BFFs do, right? Besides, I haven’t thrown a good snowball in years. It felt soooo good. Reminded me of my glory years on the softball team at Rudolph High. Never mind snowball fights with my cousins on nights exactly like this one.”

  The snow had stopped, and the clouds cleared. I stopped walking and gazed up at the stars sprinkled across the night sky and breathed in the cold, clean, crisp air. “I can’t help feeling slightly sorry for Graham Johannesen.”

  “I can. No problem at all. Why?”

  “He spent years obsessing about that money under the floorboards, scheming of a way to get into the house and have the time to do what he needed to do. Finally, he did get into the house. He killed Raquel. Then he left. Without bothering to go down into the basement to see thousands of dollars neatly stacked in boxes.”

  “But that was fake money. The stuff he was after was real.”

  “Real, yes, but most of it is more than twenty years old. As much as forty, Mrs. D’Angelo said. No one takes much cash anymore, and if someone’s handed an old bill, they might reject it. Take it all to the bank, and they’re going to want to know where it came from. Banks are concerned about money laundering, not bills gathered up from under the floorboards, but the effect would have been the same. Unlikely Graham would have had time to spend his long-awaited inheritance. That money did—does—belong to Beth Torrone. She inherited the house, which I assume means she inherited all the contents as well. Hidden and unhidden.”

  “Why do you suppose Graham left after killing Raquel without searching for what he was after?”

  “I have no idea. From what he said, he didn’t go to the house with the intention of killing her but to ask her to let him spend some time alone in it. We don’t know what she said to him, but she refused. It was rather a strange request, wasn’t it? It’s possible she mocked him. She was not a nice person, remember, although I do believe she redeemed herself at the end when she refused to kill Mrs. D’Angelo. If she laughed at Graham, he might have gotten so angry he lashed out. Whether or not he intended to kill her at that moment is for the courts to determine. Likely he realized what he’d done, intentional or not, and fled in sheer panic. Maybe when he confronted her, she told him her partner was due back any minute and he believed her, so he was afraid of being discovered if he started the search. And then, once he was safely home and no one came after him for the killing, he figured he was in the clear and made plans to get access to the house.”

  * * *

  The door to my parents’ house was unlocked, and Vicky and I walked in. Boots were piled high in the front hall, and the closet jammed with coats, hats, and scarves. The sound of conversation and laughter was earsplitting, and the scent of various perfumes mingled with scented candles. In the living room, the huge tree was laden with sparking lights and colorful decorations. Some of those decorations had been made by my siblings and me and proudly carried home from school; many were gifts from Mom’s vocal students. The tree was topped with a silver star inherited from my paternal grandparents, and gaily wrapped packages were piled beneath. The big brick fireplace contained cheerfully burning logs; a row of freshly cut greenery interwoven with red ribbon draped the mantel, and while candles in silver and crystal candlesticks of varying heights burned on the top.