“What’s his story? About coming to Rudolph in the first place?”

  “Jean-Claude and Raquel had been having an on-again, off-again, on-again relationship for years. Not only as lovers but as partners in crime. He admits to finding many of the marks she made online friends with in order to ask them for money. They worked together as thieves—she was an attractive woman, and apparently he’s quite the looker and fancies himself very charming.”

  “Raquel must have thought so,” I said.

  “Hard to say in that sort of relationship. Likely they were both only in it for what they could get out of the other. As a couple they could get themselves invited to the sort of parties where people sometimes lose track of their valuables.”

  “That happens?”

  “Apparently, it does. Until the next day anyway, when the guests have dispersed and the hangover has subsided and no one can remember who exactly invited whom. Jean-Claude, despite his continuing relationship with Raquel, is married to a woman by the name of Louisa, and they have two children. Louisa Lefevre, usually called Lou, is not unknown to the NYPD. Anyway, the plan was they would move into a nice house in a nice respectable neighborhood and set up the counterfeiting equipment they’d somehow come into possession of. Jean-Claude and Louisa and their two kids would live in the house and he’d print the money. The family would provide a nice respectable cover to what was going on down in the basement. Jean-Claude and Louisa would make the money between running the kids to school and soccer games and the like. For all I know, Louisa intended to join the PTA. Raquel’s role was to distribute the product. That was the plan.”

  “But …?”

  “But. Shortly before moving day, Jean-Claude and Louisa had a major fight, and she kicked him out. Swore she never wanted to see him again. Left him high and dry to stick out like a sore thumb on nice, respectable Broad Street. Directly across the street from none other than Mabel D’Angelo, she of the insatiable curiosity.”

  “It can’t be a coincidence Raquel’s parents were the owners of that house.”

  “It is not. Remember Frank Lopez told us Raquel was always dismissive of Rudolph?”

  “She called it a backwater.”

  “Her mistake. They were looking for a place to run the operation, the sort of house where neighbors would be unlikely to drop by with offers to ‘help’ them settle in.” Simmonds made finger quotations around the word. “Big house, big yard. The sort of neighborhood where people keep themselves to themselves.”

  I thought of Mabel D’Angelo, Donalda Reynolds, and the rest of their “network.”

  Simmonds read my mind. “Looks like Raquel misjudged. Badly and fatally.”

  “Seems a tricky idea anyway. Jean-Claude and Louisa have kids. Kids go to school. They make friends. Invite friends home from school. Talk about what their parents get up to.”

  Simmonds gave me what I could only interpret as a fond smile. “What an innocent you still are, Merry. And I mean that in a good way. Kids in families like Jean-Claude and Louisa’s learn very quickly to keep quiet about what happens at home.”

  I thought about that for a minute,

  “Raquel knew Rudolph,” Simmonds continued. “She thought she knew it anyway, a run-down backwater where nothing ever happens. For all her scorn for the town over the years, she must have been keeping up with many of the goings-on. She got word that her aunt’s old house was for rent, and she and Jean-Claude figured it would be perfect for their purposes. Maybe she thought she’d be getting one over on her parents, running her criminal operation on their own properly. That we’ll likely never know.”

  “But she was in the house when Mrs. D’Angelo came over, bearing her cookies. And then Graham dropped by. Mrs. D’Angelo says the man she heard arguing with Raquel wasn’t Graham.”

  “It wasn’t. It was Jean-Claude. When Louisa and the kids didn’t move to Rudolph, Raquel must have realized their plan might not work. People would notice a man living alone on that street, in that big house, and so she came to talk to Jean-Claude about her concerns. We’re guessing she didn’t tell him she was coming and he was out when she arrived. Or she did tell him and he made himself scarce. He says he told her he had worries about how persistent the neighbors were being. Jean-Claude’s a city boy through and through. He relied on Raquel to tell him small-town people keep to themselves.”

  “And we know how well that worked out for them.”

  “We do. Then, when he arrived back at the house, he found not only Raquel herself but an unknown woman gagged and tied up and stuffed into the pantry.”

  “Can I take a guess he didn’t approve?”

  “He did not. Obviously he hasn’t come out and said so, but we’re confident Jean-Claude initially wanted to get rid of Mabel. By which I mean kill her. To her credit, Raquel refused. That would be the argument Mabel heard going on in the kitchen.”

  “One question before you continue. Why did Raquel not take Mrs. D’Angelo’s cookies and say she was too busy to talk?”

  “We’ll never know, not for sure. But, at a guess, she simply panicked. According to Mabel herself, Raquel was in the kitchen when Mabel came knocking. A sudden rap on the door would have given her quite a shock, and she reacted as her instinct instructed her to. Jean-Claude had told her the neighbors threatened to become a problem.”

  “In that, she was right,” I said. “If she opened the door and accepted the cookies, Mrs. D’Angelo wouldn’t have simply gone away and never bothered herself with them again.”

  “We suspect Raquel suggested they pay Mabel to turn a blind eye to what was going on. Jean-Claude didn’t buy that—he figured she’d go straight to the police the minute she was released. Even if such hadn’t been the case, it’s unlikely he was willing to give up any portion of the small income they were going to make on that stupid scheme. Frankly, I doubt they’d have turned enough of a profit to pay the rent on the house, but never mind that now. Jean-Claude realized the venture was over. One way or another. Raquel had kidnapped a woman, and there was no going back from that. Mabel wouldn’t be bought, and she certainly wouldn’t simply go on her way and live and let live.”

  “Jean-Claude didn’t kill Raquel, and then Mabel.”

  “No. I like to think that when push came to shove, he truly wasn’t the type. Maybe he actually loved Raquel. Doesn’t matter. He walked out, leaving Raquel to tidy up evidence of her own folly. He knew as soon as Raquel released Mabel the police would be after him, so he headed to Canada. Probably hoping to hide out for a while.”

  “Why didn’t he take the money they’d made?”

  “He left half of it for Raquel. Her share.”

  “That was thoughtful of him.”

  Simmonds grinned. “Maybe there is some honor among thieves after all. The Montreal police found the money in the basement of his father’s house. By the way, Jean-Claude asked Frank Lopez if he would ask Louisa to visit him. He wants to try to make it up to her and be a family again.”

  “What a convoluted mess.”

  “As we often get with small-time, not-very-smart criminals. Too eager to make a fast buck than take the time to think things through.”

  “Graham Johannesen wasn’t a criminal. Of any sort. Until he wanted what he thought should be his money and Raquel stood in his way of getting it.”

  “He was smart enough to keep his head down and well out of the line of sight of our investigation. But then, when the house was put up for sale, he realized the time had come to act. For all he knew, the new owners might have planned to do renovations and they’d find the money.”

  “But once again, Mabel D’Angelo was lying in wait. Like a hunter at a blind.”

  “I really should try and get her put on the payroll,” Diane Simmonds said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By the end of the week, the post-Christmas sales rush was almost over. Time to take a breath, put my feet up, and sit back with a cup of tea.

  Until February when the Valentine’s Day promotion started.

  It’s not easy finding a way to combine every holiday with Christmas. But in Rudolph, we do our best. I was thinking of doing something to celebrate the centuries-long successful marriage of Santa and Mrs. Claus.

  I’d enjoyed a reasonably quiet day at the store, spending much of the time in my office checking out catalogs from my favorite suppliers. I had some ideas for things Alan might consider making for next year, following up on the success of his train sets and the Santa’s village.

  Vicky bustled into the store as Jackie and I were going through the end-of-the-day routine.

  “Finished!” she shouted, arms reaching toward the ceiling.

  “Finished what?” I asked.

  “The book. All done except for proofreading and a few last-minute design elements. My part is over. No more changes to the recipes.”

  “Are you happy with it?”

  “Yes, I think I am. I had to finally admit three fruitcake recipes might have been too much.”

  “Fruitcake recipes?” Jackie said. “No one eats fruitcake anymore.”

  Vicky was all argued out, and so all she did was shrug.

  “I’m looking forward to getting a copy,” Jackie said. “But cookbooks can be expensive. Will you be offering discounts to close friends?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad. It’s not like I’m ever going to make anything from it, am I? No one bakes for themselves anymore. I’ll buy one for my mom. She likes looking at the pictures in cookbooks. Okay, I’m off. See you tomorrow, Merry. Don’t forget, I’m scheduled to come in at noon.”

  “I am unlikely to forget,” I said.

  Vicky watched Jackie skip merrily out the door. Kyle leaned against a lamppost, waiting for her. She took his hand, and they skipped merrily down the street together, arms swinging.

  “I have,” Vicky said, “poured my heart and my soul into that book. At times I feared my marriage wouldn’t withstand the strain. At times I feared I wouldn’t withstand the strain. And, after all that, Jackie wants to give it to her mother because it has nice pictures.”

  I laughed. “Never mind Jackie. She was never intended to be your target audience. Plenty of people all across the country are keen home bakers, and they particularly love anything to do with Christmas baking. Did you use Mrs. D’Angelo’s cookie recipe?”

  “I did. In the notes I mentioned her name. I might have called her the “social heart” of Rudolph. Do you think that was a bit too much?”

  “She’ll be delighted, you know that. But some people—Donalda comes to mind—might take offense if they consider themselves to be the social heart of Rudolph.”

  “Donalda should have given me a recipe, then, shouldn’t she? What are you up to now?”

  “No plans. Just going home. Quiet night in. Is Mark working?”

  “Yup. Big New Year’s Eve dinner, dinners plural, tomorrow at the inn, so he’s got a ton of prep to do as well as cook for a full house tonight.”

  “Pizza and bad movie?”

  “Sounds good.”

  We both turned at the sounds of hammering on the shop door. I opened it to see my sister Eve. If all the electricity in Upstate New York had gone out at that moment, her smile would have been adequate to illuminate the town.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” I said.

  She skipped merrily into the shop. “Let me remind you, I am an actor, Merry. I can disguise my emotions as and when required.”

  “No you can’t,” I said. “Let me guess: you’ve been called for a second audition for the role you thought was canceled.”

  “Even better!” she squealed. “I’ve been offered a major part in a Netflix drama. I’m the murder victim, but I’m not killed until the third episode, so I have plenty of time to shine!”

  I was horrified. “I hope you didn’t get that part because of recent events here in Rudolph.”

  She put her hands on her hips and glared at me. “What, you think I can’t get a part based on my own talent?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said—”

  She dropped the pose and laughed. “Kidding. Heavens, Merry. No one in Hollywood would have even heard of that nonsense. They don’t care one whit what happens in a small town on the other side of the country. I’m ready to celebrate! Who’s with me?”

  “Congratulations on the part,” Vicky said. “But I’m afraid it’s going to be a pizza and bad movie night for us.”

  “I’m always in for a bad movie. Long as I’m not actually in it, if you get my meaning.” Eve laughed again. “Although no pizza for me. Two weeks of Dad’s cooking plus all the party food you people eat around here and they’ll have to roll me into the gym at home. Good thing I wasn’t fitted for my costume before the holidays.”

  “I might be able to find some limp lettuce leaves in the back of the fridge,” I said as I went to the office to get Mattie.

  The first thing I noticed as our stretch of the street came into sight was a large SOLD sticker plastered across the FOR SALE sign on the lawn of the Johannesen house.

  “Sold already,” Vicky said. “That was quick.”

  “Sure was. I hope they’re nice, pleasant, boring people. No muss. No fuss. No drama.”

  The front door of my house swung open as we turned into the driveway and Mrs. D’Angelo popped out. Earbuds in ears, phone in pocket.

  “Merry! Vicky! Eve! Just the people I was hoping to see. We’re getting new neighbors.”

  “The house sold quickly,” I said. “That’ll be a relief to the Torrones.”

  “Professional couple. Two children. Twins, by the look of it, or very close in age. He looks like some sort of a business executive, and I think she’s a lawyer.”

  “How do you know?” Eve foolishly asked before I could stop her.

  “They were at the house this morning, when Marlene put the sold sticker up. Took pictures posing in front of the house. He wore a suit and tie—a very nice suit it was too—and a good overcoat. She has that long, thin, expensively dressed look about her. She wore a brown cashmere-and-wool-blend coat with a wide belt and high-heeled brown leather boots. Looked expensive. She had gold earrings and carried a briefcase, more leather, even in a family photo. Yes, almost certainly a lawyer. The children are going to be a handful. Red hair and freckles. A boy and a girl. Might be adopted, as neither of the parents has red hair. They’re around seven years old.”

  The torrent of words continued, and then … “Incoming!” Mrs. D’Angelo yelled, grabbing for her phone. “Sorry, Merry, Vicky, I’ve got to take this. Angela lives next door to Marlene Jones, and Marlene’s just driven up. She’s sure to have an update.”

  We left her to her responsibilities.

  “I’m guessing Mrs. D. didn’t decide to change her ways after the experience with Raquel Torrone,” Vicky said.

  “So it would appear. Let’s take bets on what the new couple actually do for a living. I’m guessing he’s a restaurant manager.”

  “Why?”

  “Wearing a suit and tie on the last weekend of the year. And she’s some sort of model or maybe a TV personality.”

  “The kids,” Vicky said, “are the sweetest little angels, who’d never even think about putting a foot out of order.”

  “I wonder if they bake.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You can invite them to your book launch.”

  “Even better,” Vicky said, “if she’s a TV personality.”

  “Wait! Wait!” Mrs. D’Angelo ran around the house, and we turned to face her.

  “False alarm. It wasn’t Marlene who drove up, as Angela thought, but her husband. He’d used Marlene’s SUV because he had a load of supplies to pick up at the hardware store. They’re planning to renovate their downstairs powder room. Marlene’s husband intends to do all the work himself, because it’s a slow time at the golf course where he’s the manager. Angela figures they’ll be flooded out in a week and Marlene will have to call a professional. She’s put her cousin on standby. Angela’s cousin, not Marlene’s. He’s a licensed plumber.”

  I unclipped the leash from Mattie’s collar, and, uninterested in the renovation travails of Marlene, he wandered away to have a good sniff around the backyard.

  “That’s all very … interesting,” I said. “Did you have something else to tell us?”

  “Donalda suggested she and I pay a joint visit to them on moving day. She’ll bring a casserole, and I’ll provide my famous welcome-to-the-neighborhood cookies. Just in case, she says.”

  “You and Donalda have made up, then,” I said.

  “Of course. Mustn’t let a minor spat come between friends.”

  “In case of what?” Eve asked.

  “In case they turn out to be criminals, Donalda said. Can’t take any chances these days. Not necessary, I told her. I knew, right from the very first, something was wrong in that house. Didn’t I, Merry?”

  “Yes. You did. And you were right.”

  “No time to stand around chatting. I have to get ready. Before I go, congratulations, Eve. I’m looking forward to seeing your new show. I love a good thriller myself.”

  My sister stared at her. “How did you—”

  “Have to get ready for what?” Vicky asked.

  Mrs. D’Angelo batted her eyelashes. “George is taking me out to dinner tonight.”

  “That’s nice. Any place special?”

  “We’re going to the Yuletide. It’ll be our New Year’s Eve. Every place in town will be full tomorrow, and they always put the prices up so much, just because they can. Oh, one more thing, they have a dog.”

  “George has a dog?” Vicky asked.

  “Not him. He always did, for many years, but when the last one crossed the Rainbow Bridge, he decided he was getting too old to take on a new puppy. The new people. A cute little fluffy white thing. It jumped out of the car and almost completely disappeared under the snow. All that stood out was its pretty pink bow.”

  Mattie stopped sniffing an unseen trail. He lifted his big head and woofed.

  A new neighbor. With a girl dog, by the sounds of it.