As expected, the moment Vicky and I stepped into my parents’ party, we were barraged with questions.

  “No comment,” Vicky said as she sailed through the elegantly dressed crowd in search of our hostess. “Police orders.”

  My dad almost dragged me into the kitchen, not even giving me time to put my gifts under the tree. Provided I could find room. Eve followed us. Mom was occupied with regaling a crowd of onlookers with the story of when she appeared in Aida on Christmas Eve in New York City. Early in her career, she was due to sing a minor role but she was the understudy for Amneris, and she was called upon to take the part at the last minute when the singer became ill. I’d heard the story before. More than once.

  “They said she had a sore throat, but everyone knew she’d been on an almighty bender the night before because she found out that her lover, who sang Radamès, had been sleeping with a member of the chorus since first rehearsal.”

  “What on earth have you been up to?” Dad demanded once we were alone in the kitchen. My mother wasn’t much of a cook (truth be told, she wasn’t any sort of a cook), and my father specialized in hearty meals for a family with four kids, so as usual when they entertained, dinner had been catered and would be served buffet style. The countertops were covered with casserole dishes, bowls of salads, and trays of canapés. I recognized the enormous platters of cookies and squares as coming from Vicky’s.

  “Did they get the person who killed Raquel?” Eve asked.

  “Yes. The police have arrested Graham Johannesen, her cousin.”

  “Who’s he?” Eve said.

  “The guy from Muddle Harbor?” Dad said.

  “Yes. Look, I’d rather not talk about it. Not tonight. Not much is going to happen until tomorrow, probably the day after tomorrow, and tonight I want to kick back and enjoy the party. Okay?”

  Dad wrapped me in a hug. Eve joined in. “Okay,” they said.

  “Where’s Alan?” Eve asked.

  “In the bathtub, most likely. And that is another story.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The day after Christmas, I was in the shop early, putting up the sale signs and checking that selected items were priced accordingly.

  As expected, I’d spent most of the Christmas Eve party fielding questions about what happened at the Johannesen house. From what I overheard, Mrs. D’Angelo had gone “incommunicado” and was not answering her phone. So suspicious was that, I was grilled as to whether or not she’d been arrested as the mastermind of the counterfeiting organization.

  As I headed for the buffet table for another helping (ever mindful to keep room for a piece of shortbread or a mince tart, maybe both), I overheard one elderly woman say to an equally elderly man, “Donalda Reynolds, who lives almost next door, says the attic was stacked to the roof with gold bullion.”

  “Heavens!” her friend replied. “I can’t believe it.”

  “You shouldn’t,” I said.

  They both turned to me, eyes alight with anticipation. “What do you know, Merry? You were there, isn’t that right?”

  “All will be revealed in the fullness of time,” I said. “Russ Durham should have the story out shortly.”

  “But the paper doesn’t come out for another two days!” the man said.

  “My grandson, Edward, that’s Rosealee’s boy, such a lovely young man, did I tell you he plays fullback for Rudolph High?”

  “Several times. What about him?”

  “He’ll help me get on the Twitter tomorrow, and we can see what the true story is.”

  I chuckled and hurried on my way. Jim Morrow, husband of mayor Sue-Ellen, was moving in on the last slice of chicken pot pie, and I was determined to get there before him.

  Christmas Day had been as lovely as I’d hoped, despite the malodorous odor emanating from Ranger every time he moved (and considering Ranger is a young Jack Russell, he moves a lot). Also despite the slightly less malodorous odor clinging to Alan. He’d scrubbed and lathered himself so thoroughly he had a lovely pink glow about him and his blond hair resembled a halo.

  Mattie had recoiled in horror, first from dog and then from man, but eventually he decided the situation wasn’t so bad it should be allowed to interfere with his day, and the two dogs bounded across the yard to play. Well, Ranger bounded. Mattie meandered.

  Alan stood a careful arm’s length away from me as we watched the dogs. He stretched out his arm and tentatively put a hand on my shoulder. “If I’m too close, tell me.”

  I pulled him into me. “I’d prefer it you don’t have another encounter, but you’re not too bad.”

  “Gee, thanks.” He returned the hug and nuzzled my hair.

  I prepared brunch while Alan entertained the dogs. He came in, ruddy faced, slightly less pink, rubbing his hands together, and I handed him a mimosa.

  “How was the party last night? I still have gifts for your parents, so we should drop around sometime.”

  “Party was good. Half the town came.”

  “Par for the course.”

  “Food was great. They tried that new catering company for the appetizers and main course, and they were pleased with it. Vicky did the desserts. I managed to slip a couple of pieces of shortbread into a paper napkin. They’re on the counter.”

  “Nothing says Christmas like Vicky’s shortbread.” If he’d been Mattie, he would have drooled in anticipation. Instead Alan simply patted his flat belly.

  I handed him a plate of toast. “Aren’t you going to ask me about what happened last night? I’m fine, as you can see. I’m dealing with it okay.”

  He put the toast on the table and swung around to face me. Shortbread temporarily forgotten, his expression had turned serious. “What happened last night? Why would you not be fine?”

  “You don’t know? I thought you were being considerate of my feelings, realizing I might not want to talk about it.”

  “I repeat: What happened last night? Something at the party? Are your parents okay?”

  “You haven’t had the radio on this morning? Or checked online sources?”

  “It’s Christmas Day, Merry. I slept in, had a shower, called my folks to wish them a good day, then a quick walk with Ranger—keeping my distance, I might add. In case I hadn’t kept enough distance from him, I had yet another shower, and then I heard your car. I intend to spend the entire day with the woman I love. I have no desire to have that spoiled by the news.”

  I decided to think later about the phrase the woman I love. That was typical Alan. He lived in the moment, at the moment. One thing at a time. I said, “Take a seat. Breakfast is ready, and do I have a story for you.”

  I told the story as we ate. Alan shook his head. “The things you and Vicky get up to. After all that, you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay. I went to the party and spent so much time trying not to talk about what happened, I was able to put it aside. And now I’m here. I’ve talked about it, and now I can put it aside once again.”

  After we’d eaten and tidied up, Alan tossed more birch logs onto the fire, and we cuddled together on the soft leather couch to exchange gifts. Mattie settled at our feet and promptly went to sleep, while Ranger dashed from one window to the other to see if he could spot any birds coming to the feeders or squirrels raiding said feeders.

  Alan read the Yuletide Inn gift certificate and said, “My mom will enjoy a night out with me.”

  I tried not to express my disappointment too visibly, and Alan laughed. “She’d enjoy it, but considering they’re in Florida for the winter, I guess I’ll have to take you.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” I said.

  “Never, Merry, never.” He rummaged around under the tree and came up with a large, extravagantly wrapped package tied with an enormous gold bow. He handed it to me, all grins.

  I accepted it and grinned back. The package was so light, I knew it wasn’t likely to be a kitchen appliance or a garden gnome. I untied ribbons and removed the paper. I dug though layers upon layers of tissue paper to discover … a gift certificate to the restaurant at the Yuletide Inn.

  “Great minds,” Alan said, “think alike. Although you can take your mom, if you’d rather.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Now, how about a walk in the woods?”

  It had been the perfect Christmas Day.

  But even the most perfect of holidays ends, and it was back to work the following morning.

  Back to work not only for me but also for Detective Diane Simmonds. She phoned me as I was telling Jackie what the day’s discount items would be.

  “I need you to come in and give me a statement, Merry,” Simmonds said.

  “Can’t you come here?”

  “Let’s do this properly and formally. I had to talk to Mrs. D’Angelo over the phone, which is never ideal. She’s still at her sister’s place. I had Vicky Casey in earlier. She was kind enough to bring a basket full of pastries and those wonderful individual breakfast bread puddings for us hardworking cops.”

  Was that a hint? I wondered what I could offer as a bribe. A tree ornament discounted to $9.99? Should I bring just one bribe for the detective, or did everyone working today need something?

  Simmonds chuckled. “She was kind enough after I had a civilian clerk call with the order and pay for it on my dime. If I come to your place, Merry, you’ll be distracted. I’d prefer to have the conversation here. Hold on, I’m getting an interesting text. Some stuff was delayed yesterday because of the holiday, but it’s all coming together now. Let’s delay our chat for a couple of hours, and as an incentive, I might have some information to exchange in return for your statement.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “If you don’t hear from me otherwise, be here at noon.” She hung up.

  “Sorry, Jackie.” I emitted a martyred sigh once I’d put away my phone. “I’ve been summoned to the police station for later today. I argued, but I can’t get out of it.”

  “Didn’t sound like much of an argument to me. I read all about it in the online paper. Some guy from Muddle Harbor killed Raquel.” Jackie shook her head. “My dad says it just goes to show. You and your dad shouldn’t have been so quick to try to make friendly with them.”

  “That had absolutely nothing to do with us. Raquel died before we went to that meeting.”

  “Dad says Rudolph folk can never trust a Muddite.”

  “Remind him Raquel hadn’t lived in Rudolph for years.”

  “Once a Rudolphite, always a Rudolphite, Dad says.”

  I didn’t care for the sound of that. My father was working hard, with nothing but the best of intentions, to smooth things over between the two feuding towns. Did Graham Johannesen’s actions threaten to scupper it? “That’s what your dad thinks. What do you think, Jackie?”

  “My mom says my dad’s an old fool. He never did get over placing a distant third in the 4-H club’s heaviest-pumpkin contest when he was fourteen. Second place wouldn’t have been too bad, but a couple of kids from Muddle Harbor took both first and second places. To make things even worse, the first-place winner was a girl. I think my mom’s right. We’ve had our fair share of miscreants from Rudolph, right?”

  “Right.” I started to head for the door and then hesitated. “How was your … uh, Christmas?”

  Jackie fingered the necklace at her throat. A short but heavy silver chain, holding a large green stone nestling in the gap at the bottom of her throat. She lifted her right arm and tucked a length of hair behind her ear. The thick silver band on her wrist was inlaid with similar green stones. “It was fine. We went to Uncle Jerry and Aunt Beatrice’s for Christmas Eve, which was as awful as it usually is. Christmas Day I went around to my parents’ place for brunch and presents. Silly me, I forgot to tell Mom to uninvite Kyle.”

  “Very forgetful of you.”

  “As long as he’d gone to all the trouble to buy presents for my folks and then to come to the house, I decided I’d give our relationship another try.” She touched the necklace again. “I mean, he did bring them some nice gifts. Plus he had a little something for me. It wouldn’t have been in the true spirt of Christmas for me to order him to leave, now, would it, Merry?”

  “Most definitely not.”

  “Not to mention Mom made blueberry pancakes. That’s his favorite. Mom asked him if he’d heard that someone had been arrested for the murder of Raquel Torrone. He had. Very sad, he said. He was disappointed Russ hadn’t called him to come to the scene and take pictures of all the activity.”

  * * *

  I did not hear from Detective Simmonds to the contrary, so at noon I went to meet with her. The Rudolph police always attempt to do what they can to keep up the Christmas spirit. They try, but a police station isn’t known for being a cheerful place. Nevertheless, white fairy lights flickered around doorways and plastic wreaths hung on doors. The fake tree (a sacrilege anywhere else in Rudolph) was dusty and showed evidence that once upon a time a family of mice had gotten into the box, but it was gaily trimmed. Some of the desks were adorned with children’s handmade decorations, which look absolutely adorable and always perfect wherever they’re displayed.

  Diane Simmonds, coffee cup in hand, met me at the door and led me to an interview room. It was the “nice” interview room, but nothing had been done in here to meet the spirit of the season.

  I took a seat, refused a glass of water or a coffee, and started by asking her if she’d had a nice Christmas. She had, she told me, quiet and peaceful with just her and her daughter and her mother. A fun afternoon of skating in the park and enjoying the toboggan hill. Social formalities over, I began to talk about the events of Christmas Eve night and my line of thinking that led to Vicky, Mrs. D’Angelo, and me confronting Graham Johannesen. I talked; she listened and took notes.

  When I was finished, she said, “Is there ever any point in me reminding you to call me or one of my colleagues when you have a suspect in your sights?”

  I winced. “Sometimes events spiral out of my control.”

  “Sometimes.” She sighed. “Never mind that now. Good job, Merry. Graham Johannesen was nowhere on our radar for the killing of Raquel. No reason he should have been, but you figured it out. The money he was after, by the way, has been recovered from its hiding place and is being held in evidence. The Torrones will get it eventually, as the rightful owners of the property on which it was found, but I can’t say when that will happen. Johannesen would have had a lot of trouble, probably more trouble than he would have been capable of dealing with, trying to pass so many old bills without being able to prove where he got them. But, as they are now passing through our hands and we know the providence, the banks should accept them from the rightful heirs.”

  “How much is there?”

  “I can’t say. If the bills were all ones—a couple of thousand maybe. If higher denominations, thousands, tens of thousands. Maybe in the hundreds of thousands. All I saw was a stack of old money, and you can be sure that was taken into evidence mighty fast by people far above my pay grade.”

  “Has Graham confessed? To the killing I mean?”

  “He admits he was in the house with Raquel on the day she died. He says he told her about their aunt Dorothy’s hidden money and he suggested they split it. She told him she needed to talk to her boyfriend first, and so he, Graham, left, expecting to hear from her later. Next thing he heard, she’d died. He was totally shocked, he says.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Of course not. I’m confident we’ll get him soon enough. First, he’d been in the company of the dead woman shortly before she was murdered and he didn’t bother to come forward to tell us about it. We call that concealing evidence. Secondly, there’s no doubt he threatened you and Mrs. D’Angelo. About that, he says he was afraid you’d pin the killing on him, so he tried to warn you off.”

  I snorted.

  “Yup. According to you, Mabel D’Angelo, and Vicky Casey, he told you he killed Raquel and shoved her down the stairs.”

  I nodded.

  “Three witnesses who have no reason to conspire against him. We have good physical evidence too. Forensics found several strands of hair on Raquel’s clothes, almost certainly deposited when her body was dragged to the cellar and pushed down the stairs. Short, dark hair, which we know does not belong to Jean-Claude Lefevre. Because of past indiscretions on his part, his DNA is on file. Now we have Graham Johannesen, I’m hopeful we can make a match. If he only spoke to her, as he says, his hair would not have gotten on her. Forensics are going over his place with a fine-toothed comb. Literally. I’m expecting they’ll find something of hers on his things that shouldn’t be there. Blood spatter can be mighty hard to get out of everything, and even if he had the presence of mind to burn the clothes he was wearing at the time, including coat, gloves, et cetera, residue often manages to transfer itself to things such as car seats.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” I started to stand.

  She grinned at me. “Sit down. That’s not all. The Quebec police arrested Jean-Claude Lefevre yesterday. Frank Lopez spoke to their detectives this morning. That’s why I delayed talking to you, hoping to have something to tell you. And I do. Lefevre is being very talkative; wisely, he’s ready and eager to confess to counterfeiting to get himself out of a potential murder charge. He claims he and Raquel argued on the afternoon of Saturday, December sixth. He walked out of the house and drove away. Raquel was alive at the time he left, and he did not return.”

  “Does the time of her death back his story up?”

  “Only to a limited extent. He crossed the border not long after the time the autopsy estimates Raquel died, but that’s not exact. He’s lucky we—you—caught Graham, or he would be very much in the frame.”