“Vicky and Merry need to get into dry clothes,” Alan said. “And Mark and I need to get out of the rain.”

  “Can we go to my place?” I asked the detective. “We’ll wait for you there.”

  “Go ahead,” Simmonds said. “Brittany had been in the house, so the forensics team need to go over it before I can let anyone back in.” She’d glanced up at the cloud-covered sky. “Not a nice night to be gathering outdoor evidence.”

  * * *

  Mattie was delighted to have all these unexpected visitors, canine as well as human. Mrs. D’Angelo, dressed in her nightgown and housecoat, streaks of white face cream still evident, ran up the stairs after us, demanding to know what was going on. One of her “contacts” on Lakeside Drive had immediately put out the word of police activity once again at Cole House.

  My father called shortly thereafter, also wanting to know what was going on.

  “You can tell Mom,” I said, after reassuring him we were all fine, “she solved the case.”

  “She’ll be delighted to hear it. Will she know how she accomplished that?”

  “I’ll tell her in the morning. ’Night Dad.”

  “Good night, honeybunch. Call if you need anything.”

  Michelle arrived with a bag full of bandages, antiseptic wipes and ointment; the moment she came through the door, she dropped to her knees in front of Vicky’s chair.

  “They look worse than they are,” Vicky said.

  “That’s good to know,” Michelle said, “because they look mighty bad.”

  Vicky yipped and yelped, and Alan, Mark, Mrs. D’Angelo, and I winced in sympathy, as Michelle carefully extracted thorns, dirt, bits of gravel, and who knows what else from her feet, and dabbed antiseptic on the cuts.

  “You’ll be limping up the aisle,” Michelle said as she secured the last bandage, “but most of this should heal quickly, provided you keep off your feet.”

  “I can’t keep off my feet. You know what my job’s like, Mom.”

  “We can get some padded mats for you to stand on at the bakery,” Mark said. “That’ll help.”

  “You must have been in terror for your very lives,” Mrs. D’Angelo said with an unsuitable degree of pleasure, “to allow that to happen.” She’d settled comfortably in an old, overstuffed chair, a castoff from my parents’ house. A cup of tea rested on the table beside her, and her ever-present phone was in her lap.

  “Can’t talk about it,” I said. “Police orders.”

  “You can tell me, dear.”

  I smiled sweetly.

  Michelle was checking the last of her bandages and putting her equipment away when Detective Simmonds rang the downstairs bell.

  The moment she walked in, she ordered Mrs. D’Angelo out of my apartment. My landlady made a key-locking-lips gesture and said, “My lips are sealed, Detective. I know how to keep highly sensitive details to myself.”

  “Out!”

  Mrs. D’Angelo sighed heavily. “Very well. I can see this is on a need-to-know basis. Merry, I expect the full story in the morning. My friends are depending on me.” She left, head held high, closing the door behind her with a slam of righteous indignation.

  Simmonds crept across the room. She put her ear to the door, waited about twenty seconds, and threw the door open. Mrs. D’Angelo put her hands to her heart and jumped back. “Good heavens, Detective. You startled me. I seem to have left my … my …”

  “Good night, Mabel,” the detective said. “Shall I call an officer to sit with you for the rest of the night?”

  “No. No. Not necessary. Until tomorrow, Merry.” She bustled off.

  “You might as well have let her stay,” Alan said. “You know she’ll beg Merry for every little detail in the morning, and what information she doesn’t get, she’ll make up.”

  “Be that as it may, I don’t want a potential court case confused by gossip and hearsay,” Simmonds said. “I’m not much of a tea person, and I have a long night ahead of me. Any chance of a coffee, Merry?”

  “I’ll get it,” Alan said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I dropped into the bakery on Thursday. Vicky had to keep off her damaged feet as much as possible, but she limped into the restaurant to join me over coffee and a sandwich. She insisted her feet were healing rapidly, and she’d be right as rain to walk up the aisle on her wedding day. She also told me she and Mark had decided to sell the house.

  “Sell it? Are you sure, Vicky?”

  “Mark and I talked it over. A lot. It was always his dream to have a big old house with a huge property. Not mine, but I want him to be happy, and he was so thrilled when we got it. Most of that thrill’s gone.” Her face twisted. “I mean, a man died there. Mark found the body in our yard. A woman tried to kill me on that property. You and me. I’m not worried about the history of the house—Emmeline and her sisters and all that. But … I can’t forget that I was frightened in that house. I don’t want those memories coming back on dark winter nights when Mark’s working late. Do you understand?”

  “Totally. Mark’s okay with this?”

  She threw me that great big Vicky smile. “Turns out that while I was wanting Mark to be happy, he was wanting me to be happy. He says that even before the confrontation with Brittany, he was beginning to think buying a big old house with lots of history and not much livability might have been a matter of biting off more than he can chew. But he didn’t tell me because he thought I loved the house.”

  You’re putting it back on the market, then?”

  “Might not have to. Sue-Anne called us. She says the town’s thinking of buying it and turning it into a museum to do with the history of Rudolph. We shouldn’t be completely relying on the Christmas Town thing to keep our town going. She said it’s time to think outside the Christmas box.”

  “Sounds like something my dad would say.”

  “It probably was. Sue-Anne isn’t known for original ideas. My own dad might have had something to do with it too. Charles Cole never specified what would happen to the trust he set up to maintain the house once he had no further heirs. Dad says if we call the house the Charles Cole Museum, the town can possibly take over the trust. It’s not a lot, but enough they can do some repairs, keep the heat on, that sort of thing. Sue-Anne also mentioned that the Rudolph Gardening Club have long wanted to get their hands—or I should say trowels—into the Cole House garden and restore it to its former glory.”

  “Where are you going to live in the meantime?”

  “It won’t all happen right away. As you know, the town council never rushes into anything, although they eventually do whatever your dad tells them to do. We have time to look for a place. We’re thinking a nice modern bungalow on a small lot not far outside town.”

  “Sounds like a great idea,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Vicky and Mark’s wedding might have been small, but it was truly marvelous. My friend looked absolutely stunning in the dress we’d chosen for the church service. She’d planned to match the dress with a pair of sky-high stiletto heels. Instead, at her mother’s insistence, she wore hastily purchased, thick-soled flats that covered the few remaining bandages on her feet. She clutched a small bouquet of spring flowers and spoke her vows clearly and with emphasis. Mark was dressed in a perfectly cut gray suit, the tie matching Vicky’s lock of pink hair. As he said his own vows, the look he gave her lit up the church.

  Alan held my hand and gave me a smile, almost as warm as Mark’s. In the pew in front of us, Michelle wept and Tom Casey beamed.

  My mom got to her feet in a river of silver and approached the front of the church. I leaned around Alan and looked at my dad. He was wearing a suit, nice although considerably out of date, and beaming with pride. “What’s this?” I whispered.

  “Michelle and Aline’s secret surprise,” Dad said.

  My mother began to sing Habanera, an aria from Carmen.

  Love is a rebellious bird

  That no one can tame

  That piece of music is sometimes used at weddings, although the lyrics aren’t entirely suitable. Which doesn’t really matter as it’s in French. I only know this because of the number of times that aria has been sung in our house and the intense discussions between my mother and her fellow singers about it.

  The service was short but sweet, and we emerged into the bright spring sunshine, got into our cars, and headed for the Yuletide Inn, where photographs would be taken in the garden prior to going in for dinner.

  “Do you remember our wedding, Noel?” my mom asked. My parents were traveling to the reception with Alan and me. Vicky had initially suggested having Sandbanks, Mattie, and Ranger form part of the bridal party, but Mark and I didn’t think that was such a great idea. Sandbanks could be incontinent at times; Ranger’s enthusiasm would be guaranteed to get the better of him; and Mattie’s sheer size might present an obstacle to the older of Vicky’s relatives as they entered or left the church.

  Instead, the three dogs were at Alan’s place. Vicky and Mark would be spending the night in the bridal suite of the hotel.

  Grace Olsen and the staff at the Yuletide Inn had gone above and beyond to give Vicky and Mark an evening to remember. The tables looked beautiful, the food was fantastic, and when we got up to dance, the music was played by a DJ who knew how to accommodate all tastes and age groups.

  Russ Durham asked me for a dance. It was a slow one, and we moved into position. On the far side of the room, I saw Alan approach Michelle Casey, and her accept with a smile.

  “As much as I wanted a dance with you,” Russ said, “I have an ulterior motive. I figured this would be a good time for an update. Your mom will have my head if she finds out I’m talking shop at Vicky’s wedding.”

  “Update away,” I said. “It will be our secret.”

  “No doubt you heard Brittany’s been charged with the murder of Jim Cole and the attempted murder of you and Vicky.”

  “Detective Simmonds came to the store to tell me so in person.”

  “I’ve had a busy week, digging into all the angles of this story. It’s going to be a big one.”

  “Already is.” The Gazette had gone all out with a front-page feature spreading into the back pages, about Cole House itself. Russ conducted in-depth interviews with people acquainted with the story of the house and its history. Old photos of the mansion in its full grandeur and of the family in happy days had been found in the paper’s archives and printed anew.

  “I was happy to get the chance to do a story on the house. It’s an important piece of Rudolph history, and it deserves to be remembered. Because I’m such an outsider,” he said in his deep Louisiana accent, “I can do more with that history than someone for whom it’s always been nothing more than a place for high school kids to party and try to scare each other. I do have one piece of information that might be new to you.”

  “What?”

  “Miss Emmeline Cole was nowhere near as poverty-stricken as people believed.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She had considerable wealth in her own name. Her fiancé, Arnold MacLeish, died December twenty-fourth, 1983. A couple of weeks before his death, he changed his will, leaving everything to her, obviously expecting her to become his wife shortly. His parents, who seem to have liked Emmeline very much, never contested that will. If anything, they believed she should have what he wanted her to have. As well as enough money to provide her with an adequate, although not lavish income, for the remainder of her days, she inherited stock valuing ten thousand dollars. That was in 1983.”

  “And …?” I wondered where this was going. Ten thousand dollars wasn’t a life-changing amount of money. Not even in 1983.

  “After his death, Emmeline became a recluse. With some of what she’d inherited from her fiancé, plus what she had from her own family, she bought a small house in Rochester, where she remained for the rest of her days. From that point on, she lived her life much as Miss Haversham did. She never traveled; didn’t give parties; rarely, if ever, went to restaurants. She didn’t collect rare art or books. She had few friends, no children of her own, and no contact with her only surviving relatives: her cousin, Jim Cole, or his daughter, Cindy. She served on some charitable committees, but nothing that involved her going out in public. Thus she had no need to sell Cole House, which she still owned, or the stock MacLeish left her. Did I mention that her fiancé was an executive in a burgeoning computer company you might have heard of? Its name is Apple.”

  “You mean she got Apple stock from him? Ten thousand dollars’ worth of stock? What would that be worth today?”

  “Upward of ten million, I believe.”

  I trod on Russ’s foot. He grinned down at me. “Yup.”

  “Do you think she knew that?”

  “Oh yes. She definitely knew. Emmeline was no Luddite. She had modern computer equipment in her house. She kept up with the news and her charitable causes. She tracked the stock market regularly. She knew. She didn’t need the money—that’s all. So she never sold any of the stock, and dividends were automatically reinvested to buy more stock.

  “How do you know this?”

  “When Jim started trying to overturn her will, Emmeline’s lawyer, Tom Casey, alerted the Rochester police and asked them to take an interest in Emmeline’s death, wondering if there was anything suspicious about it.”

  “Was there?”

  “Nothing indicates so. But their investigation into her finances and her computer habits turned up what I just told you.”

  We resumed our dance. “The charity for homeless women is in for a substantial windfall.”

  “That they are.”

  I started to laugh. We flew around the room, and I laughed and laughed. People stopped dancing to look at me. Alan thew a puzzled look at Russ as he and Michelle danced past us.

  “What’s so funny?” Russ asked.

  “Jim Cole. Trying to get his hands on that run-down old house. If he’d pretended to be a slightly nicer man; if he’d shown some friendship to his older, reclusive cousin. If he’d visited her now and again. Offered to take her on outings or help with her shopping. He could have been in line for a cut of ten million bucks.”

  “Considering what I’ve learned about Emmeline Cole, that would only have worked if he was genuinely a nice man. She was no fool.”

  I stopped once again. I looked across the room. Vicky and Mark were dancing together now, looking as though nothing in the world existed but each other. My mom was regaling the table of Vicky’s siblings and their spouses with tales of her glory days. Tom Casey and my dad were chatting. Both men had ties askew and drinks in hand.

  “Tom Casey had to know that all along.”

  “Of course he did. An inkling anyway, although likely not the total amounts. His father was the Cole family lawyer, and then Emmeline’s. He wasn’t going to tell anyone, Merry. Not until the estate was settled. Attorney client privilege and all that. I’m going to get another drink. Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  We went to the bar, and Russ got a bourbon on the rocks for himself and a glass of white wine for me. Alan thanked Michelle for the dance and joined us. He slipped his arm around me. I suspect he didn’t entirely trust Russ. When I first came back to Rudolph to open Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, Russ and I had eyed each other as potential mates. Alan, who I later found out had long adored me from afar (foolish man), had seen what was happening. Sparks had not flown between Russ and me, and I’d finally realized Alan was the one I wanted to be with.

  I hugged Alan in return.

  “You two had a long talk,” he said.

  “I learned some interesting things. Tell you later.”

  “As for the murder itself,” Russ said. “Turns out the house itself had nothing do with the death of Jim Cole. Rather ironic, don’t you think, that with all the enemies he’s made over the years, he died because he happened to cross paths late one night with a disturbed young woman he didn’t even know. I can’t print much of this yet, but Diane gave me a heads-up. Brittany’s going to plead to involuntary manslaughter for Cole. She’ll claim he snuck up on her, made threats against her, and she defended herself. She says she didn’t know he was badly hurt, and when Mark showed up moments later—”

  “Not moments,” I said.

  “Whatever. She left, assuming Mark would call for help.”

  “Will that defense hold?”

  “It might, Merry. A young woman alone on a dark, spooky property at night. A man not known for minding his own business. Her lawyer will make a big deal out of Cole’s reputation. On the other hand, she was where she was not supposed to be, and she had no legitimate reason to be there. The police got DNA off the fence around the property, following the death of Jim Cole. Years of people climbing the fence and getting splinters in fingers, or scraping their legs, etcetera. Most of it they weren’t able to match with anyone, but they have at least two very recent samples. Only after Brittany was arrested were they able to identify those two samples as hers. Not only DNA, but she snagged her clothes on a nail one night, and the torn fabric has been matched to a shirt found at her house. Enough evidence to prove she didn’t wander onto the property on that one occasion, only to be accosted by Jim Cole, but had been there, uninvited, several times, in an attempt to access the house and to deliberately frighten the inhabitants.”

  “Did she confess to the frightening bit?” Alan asked.

  “It was, according to her, nothing but a joke. She says she was angry at Vicky for not hiring her and wanted to get back at her. So she wanted to make Vicky think the house was haunted. She tried breaking in but was unsuccessful, which would account for some of the noises Vicky and Mark heard. The night Jim Cole died, Brittany knew Vicky had company, and thought she’d scare you both by knocking on doors and windows and the like. She was hoping you’d flee, leaving the door unlocked, and she could walk right in.”

  Alan shook his head and said nothing.

  “One more thing …” Russ grinned at us.

  “It’s like pulling teeth,” I muttered.