I glanced at Mrs. D’Angelo and George. His eyes flicked open and he let out a low groan. Mrs. D’Angelo burst into tears. Behind me, I could hear people shouting, asking what was going on. Margie Thatcher jumped up and down, yelling, and waving her glass in the air with such vigor wine splashed over the rim. “Get help! We need help out here.”

  The lights of George’s truck were on. I let go of the car I was clinging to and grabbed for the driver’s door of the truck. I wrenched it open and swung myself in. As I’d hoped, the keys were in the ignition. I looked at the control panel. It resembled nothing I’d ever seen before. A long metal pole, which I took to be the gearshift, was attached to the back of the steering wheel, not rising up from the floor next to the driver’s seat. I’d heard of standard transmission. I had no idea how to drive one though.

  Margie Thatcher clambered in the passenger door. “Do you know how to drive this, Merry?”

  “No.”

  “Not much good then, are you?”

  “I guess not.”

  My door was wrenched open. Detective Diane Simmonds said, “What on earth is going on here?” Behind her I could see people streaming out of the community center in their finery, heedless of the cold and the falling snow. Many were shouting into their phones or taking pictures of the scene.

  “Dave,” I gasped. “It’s Dave French. He killed Paula. He’s making a run for it.”

  “He won’t get far,” she said. “You better get out of there. You’re going to freeze.”

  I swung my legs out the door and jumped down. “Someone has to go after him. Who knows what he might do thinking he has nothing left to lose?”

  Simmonds grinned at me. “Taken care of.”

  She pointed and I followed the direction of her finger. Dave had been driving too fast through the unplowed parking lot. His car had come to a sudden halt, the hood buried in a snowbank, wheels spinning, snow flying. As I watched, he stumbled out of the car, into the waiting arms of several police officers.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hot tea was pressed into my hands. I gripped the cup and took a sip, letting the welcome warmth fill me. Gradually, I stopped shivering.

  “Believe it or not,” I said to the circle of people watching me. “I decided not to intervene, but to tell Detective Simmonds what I believed had happened. Dave realized what I was thinking and he followed me out of the gym intending to stop me calling her. Oh, by the way, he put my phone in his pocket. Can I have it back?”

  “’Fraid not,” the detective said. “It’ll be taken into evidence.”

  I groaned.

  We were back in the gym of the Rudolph Community Center. I’d been guided to a chair, someone had draped a coat over my shoulders, and someone else had brought me a mug of hot, sweet tea.

  The party ended abruptly and everyone unceremoniously sent out into the night. Only my mom, Alan, Vicky and Mark, and Jackie had been allowed to stay. In the background, the waitstaff watched us while quickly closing up bottles and whisking away uneaten food.

  By the time I’d clambered down from the truck and watched Dave being arrested, an ambulance had arrived and medics were struggling to get George to lie still so they could check him over. He was trying to sit up and insisting he was fine, but they wanted to take him to the hospital to be examined anyway. My dad, who arrived on the scene at the same time as Diane Simmonds, told George not to be a fool. He wasn’t a young man, and he’d had a blow to the head when he hit the ground, never mind a punch to the jaw.

  George eventually gave in, and Dad and Mrs. D’Angelo were allowed to ride in the ambulance with him to the hospital.

  The elderly couple I’d earlier seen in the hallway had hurried (as fast as they could) into the gym and shouted for help. The police had been called, and many of the partygoers hurried out to see what was going on. Russ and Kyle were among the first out the doors, Kyle ready to take the Pulitzer Prize–winning shot. The chief of police was now outside, supervising the scene himself while Diane asked me for my statement. A few moments ago, I’d heard Russ trying to talk his way back into the gym, and Candy Campbell, guarding the door, telling him to get lost.

  “I did try to find help,” I said. “So no one can be angry at me this time, right?”

  “I can,” Alan said. “Sometimes, Merry …” His voice drifted off and he simply shook his head.

  “The things you get up to,” Mom said.

  “I’m sorry about that, Merry,” Simmonds said. “Looks like I dropped the ball. I was about to leave, thinking coming here tonight had been a waste of time. Other than enjoying a good show, that is. On my way out, your dad and I got chatting. My daughter’s having trouble making friends at school, and knowing how involved your parents are in the community I wanted some suggestions as to activities she can participate in. I confess I suggested we step outside so I could indulge in my one-a-day smoking habit, and we went out the back way. I am sorry.”

  “All’s well that ends well,” Mom said. “I trust Noel didn’t join you in partaking in this smoke? One a day or not.”

  “No, Mrs. Wilkinson, he did not.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “All of which is beside the point,” Simmonds said. “Take me through what happened, Merry.”

  “Can’t that wait?” Mom said. “My daughter needs to rest. She’s had a considerable shock and a traumatic experience.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “You are not,” Mom, Alan, and Vicky said simultaneously.

  “I need to go down to the station and talk to Dave anyway,” the detective said. “I’ll get a full statement from you tomorrow. Before I do that, though, I need to know one thing. Did Dave French confess to killing Paula Monahan?”

  I thought for a long time. Everyone watched me. “As good as,” I said at last.

  “As good as is rarely good enough.”

  “He said he made a mistake following her into my store. But only because it was my store and he didn’t realize how much I’m … in his words … tight with the police. He said he saw his chance and took it, although I suppose he never exactly said, in so many words, what that chance was.”

  “It’s a place to start,” she said.

  “Why?” Mom said. “What sort of threat would Paula have been to Dave?”

  “Oh, my gosh.” Jackie clutched her face in her hands, her eyes wide. “Was he out to get the Mrs. Cratchits? The Christmas Cratchit Killer? I might have been next. I need to sit down.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mom snapped.

  I said, “You’re perfectly safe, Jackie. Paula was no threat to Dave, but she’d mocked him and he didn’t care for that.” I reached out one hand and my mother folded it into hers. “Same as you, Mom. He knew he couldn’t kill you without endangering the run of the play—tonight’s grand opening in particular—so he decided to put a fright into you.”

  “Diane,” Mom said. “You might want to look into the possibility of there having been incidents in other productions Dave’s been involved in. This sort of behavior rarely comes out of nowhere. So many people want to be stars and there are so few real opportunities and so much ego is on the line.” For once, she didn’t launch into a story about a conflict she’d been involved in or observed—she merely gripped my hand all the tighter.

  “I’ll make some calls to that effect,” Simmonds said. “As for now, looks like I have a long night ahead of me. I’m going down to the station. See what Dave has to say for himself.”

  “He’ll try to weasel out of it,” Vicky said. “He’ll say Merry misunderstood or overreacted or something.”

  Simmonds gave us all a knowing grin. “Dave French was observed by a substantial number of respectable citizens punching an elderly man in a totally unprovoked assault. I’ll be laying that charge immediately, and then we’ll see what comes up. Something always does. They never can stop trying to explain themselves.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dad had called from the hospital to say they were keeping George in overnight, but only as a precaution because of his age. He was sitting up, telling the nurses if Dave hadn’t taken him by surprise, Dave would be the one needing their care.

  I’d been bundled off home, and Alan tucked me into bed. I slept surprisingly well, considering the fright I’d had that night, and awoke to sunlight streaming through my windows and the scent of coffee and bacon drifting out of the kitchen. I grabbed for my phone, needing to check the time, before remembering it had been taken as police evidence. Heaven knew when, if ever, I’d get it back.

  Alan’s tousled blond head popped into the bedroom. “Thought I heard you moving around.”

  “What time is it? I have to get to the store.”

  “Coffee’s on and breakfast will be ready soon. Diane called a few minutes ago to say she’s on her way to take your statement about last night and to let us know what’s been happening.”

  “But … but … the time? The store?”

  “It’s ten thirty.”

  “Ten thirty!” I threw off the covers. “On the second last Saturday before Christmas!”

  Alan sat on the edge of the bed and pushed me back down with a gentle touch. “Relax. I called Chrystal and asked her if she could come in early today, and Jackie’s already there. They can manage for a few hours.”

  “I suppose. Did you speak to Jackie? She’s got to be wired about last night.”

  “I didn’t, but Chrystal said she’ll call me if Jackie seems distracted.” He gave me a kiss on the forehead. I reached for him, but he pulled away with a laugh. “You have just enough time for a shower and to get dressed before Diane gets here.”

  By the time I walked into the kitchen, showered, dressed, and feeling at least partially back to normal, Diane Simmonds was sitting at the table drinking coffee and digging into a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, and toast. She’d changed out of her evening wear into jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket, scrubbed most of the makeup off, and run her fingers through her hair, but the circles under her eyes told me she’d not been to bed. Mattie sat at her feet, tongue lolling, drooling on everything, staring at her through enormous brown eyes overflowing with adoration. He didn’t even bother begging for scraps of bacon.

  She put down her fork, picked up her coffee cup, and gave me a grin when I came in. “Good morning, Merry.”

  Alan put a steaming mug in front of the spare chair at the table. I sat down. “You seem pleased with yourself, Detective,” I said.

  “Early days yet, but we’re making progress. I need you to come down to the station later today and make a proper statement. Alan tells me you don’t have to be into work until later this afternoon.”

  “Actually I should—”

  “One o’clock should do it. In the meantime, I can fill you in on some of what’s been happening. Last night, Dave French insisted that you’d gone totally, and I quote … nuts on him, ranting and raving and making wild accusations. He’d been trying to calm you down. He says you ran out into the snowstorm and he followed, afraid you’d hurt yourself.”

  When I finished sputtering with indignation, and Alan had stopped growling, Simmonds continued. “Not much he could say, when I told him I have several pieces of cell phone footage showing him punching George Mann, a man almost twice his age, hard enough to knock him to the ground, and then attempting to flee. Without, apparently, concerning himself with your welfare, which he’d been so concerned about a few short minutes ago. The attack on George was sufficient for me to arrest him for assault and to hold him overnight. He got on the phone to a lawyer, and said lawyer arrived first thing this morning. I interviewed Dave, in the presence of his lawyer, about the accusations against him.”

  “What did he say to that?” Alan asked.

  “He said he’ll plead guilty to the assault on George, although he was confused and not acting like himself. When I asked him about Paula and your mother he began, as they usually do, justifying himself. Somehow, people like Dave French always seem to think that if they explain themselves to me carefully enough, I’ll totally see their point of view and let them go with a pat on the head and a request to please not do it again. His lawyer knew better, but once Dave started, he couldn’t stop talking. He pranked, in his words, your mother, because she needed to be taught not to be so full of herself.”

  “Bit late for that,” I said. “Oops. Did I say that out loud?”

  Alan, who was standing behind me, his strong woodworker’s hands resting on my shoulders, chuckled.

  “From there,” Simmonds continued, “Dave managed to segue, again despite his lawyer’s warnings, into telling me Paula was so startled when he came into the shop on the afternoon in question she lost her footing. He grabbed her scarf in an attempt to keep her from falling. And.…”

  “And?” Alan and I chorused.

  “At that point his lawyer finally got him to shut up. But he’d said enough. He’s confessed to being at the scene, and he quite obviously didn’t try to help her. Not that there was anything accidental about it, and I’m confident of being able to prove such in a court of law.” She grinned at me and put down her empty coffee mug. “We’ve got him for all that. I intend to add the attempted murder of you to the charges and for that I need your statement. See you at one, my office. Thanks for the breakfast, Alan. I’ve had a long day already.”

  * * *

  “Dave French truly was typecast as Marley then,” my mother said.

  “Looks like it. Except for the coming to see the error of his ways part.” Despite a heaping helping of Alan’s eggs and bacon after Detective Simmonds left, I’d agreed to meet my parents at Victoria’s Bake Shoppe later in the afternoon. Alan had taken me to the police station at one before going home. He needed to see to Ranger, and then he expected to put in a couple of all-nighters to get stock made to replenish the local shops for the last-minute Christmas rush.

  At Mrs. Claus’s, I found Chrystal overwhelmed while Jackie held court telling everyone who was interested, and many who were not, about her spectacular triumph as Mrs. Cratchit as well as the takedown of the “Christmas Carol Killer,” which she herself had, if not personally participated in, been witness to.

  I dragged Jackie off stage (i.e. my store floor) and into my office, where I delivered a strongly worded lecture on not only the value of a day’s work for a day’s pay but the inadvisability of spreading gossip about any killer in town, never mind associating his name with Christmas in America’s Christmas Town.

  “Whatever,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten I’m leaving at five, I hope? I have a performance to give tonight, remember.”

  I sighed. “I remember.”

  “I hope Frank comes back to see the show again. I talked it over with Kyle last night and he thinks I delivered my opening line a bit too softly. Tonight I’m going to speak up more.” She’d walked out of my office, saying, “Now children. Now! Children! Now children.”

  “Oh, by the way. I have a new student. Someone you know,” Mom said as she nibbled on the edge of a piece of gingerbread.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Candice Campbell. Last light, when you and Alan left, your father was still at the hospital with George so I called a cab to take me home. Candy was outside the community center, doing what I believe they call guarding the scene. She told me she wants to take lessons from me.”

  “Can she sing?” Dad asked.

  Mom shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I told her to make an appointment in the new year and we will start from there. She’s hoping, she told me, to join the theater players.”

  I groaned. “I hope you’re not having anything more to do with them, Mom. Dave French might be gone, but I don’t see Catherine and Desmond getting on any better from now on. Never mind Jackie’s convinced her chance of stardom is at hand. As for Candy …”

  Mom sipped her tea. “Desmond called me this morning. He wanted to check in, make sure I wasn’t too disturbed by the events of last night.”

  “Meaning your daughter being chased through a snowstorm by a deranged killer?”

  “And her chasing him in return,” Dad said. “No. He was concerned that Aline would have been upset by the abrupt ending of the party.”

  “You theater people really are a single-minded lot,” I said.

  “He mentioned he’s considering proposing the company put the play on again for Christmas in July.”

  “Might be a good idea,” Dad said.

  “It’s a terrible idea. I trust you said no, Mom.” I knew I was wasting my breath. She had that look behind her eyes. The one that meant she was already working out vocal arrangements and stage movements.

  * * *

  Mom headed for home to prepare herself for tonight’s repeat performance, and Dad and I strolled together down Jingle Bell Lane, back to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures.

  A substantial amount of snow had fallen last night, and the temperatures had risen to just below freezing. People were bundled up in coats and scarves, carrying bulging bags of gifts, edible treats, and cheerful wrapping paper. Decorations filled the store windows, lights twinkled from wreathes on the light standards, and cries of “Merry Christmas” and “Happy Holidays” rang out as friends greeted each other.

  When we reached Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, Dad said. “I’m hoping you can give me some idea as to what I can get your mother for Christmas, honeybunch.”

  “Not a clue. I’m afraid you’re on your own this year, Dad. Next year, I bet if you ask Chrystal to make her something truly personal and individual, she will. But this year—you’ve left it too late.” As usual, I thought, but didn’t say. I gave my father a spontaneous hug.

  He smiled and said, “what brought that on?”

  “Nothing in particular. Thinking about Dave and Lloyd French maybe.”

  Dad frowned and shook his head and said nothing.

  I wasn’t looking to excuse, or even explain, what Dave had done. He couldn’t excuse the callous way he killed Paula because she’d offered him some mild insult and he took his chance for revenge, or the way he’d frightened my mother. But from the little he told me, I believed Dave’s relationship with his father might have had a lot to do with his … issues. The elder Mr. French openly scorned his acting ambitions, and Dave’s ego was so wrapped up in wanting to be a star it was all-consuming. He came home to help his parents after his father’s stroke, because his mother asked him to. And then, as thanks, his dad mocked his interest in show business and refused to even attend the play that was so vitally important to his son. It was all so very sad.