I then chastised myself for being as bad as Mrs. D’Angelo. If the new resident(s) wanted to stay out of the cold as they came and went, it was absolutely none of my business.

  Friday afternoon, I had an unexpected visitor at the store. We were in the midst of a busy day, which is always good. The holiday season was in full swing, everyone looking for that perfect gift or the perfect items to add to their own holiday decor.

  Melissa was behind the counter, ringing up purchases, while Jackie helped an elderly gentleman choose a gift for his wife. Jackie might be exasperating sometimes (okay, much of the time), but as a salesclerk she couldn’t be faulted. She flirted lightly with the man and ensured he knew he could take his time making this important decision. She tried on jewelry and posed for him, her eyes sparking and smile bright. Eventually he settled on a necklace and earing set, largely because Jackie told him it had been made by a local woman.

  The customer I’d been helping finally decided on a table runner and matching linen napkins with a nutcracker theme, and she took her selection to the counter.

  The chimes over the door tinkled, and Mabel D’Angelo came in. I couldn’t recall her ever being in my store before, and today I instantly concluded she wasn’t here to embark on a shopping spree. Her face was set into serious lines, and rather than admiring the goods, her eyes darted around the shop, searching for something.

  They found it. Me. She spotted me and hurried over. “Merry, there you are. I need to talk to you.”

  “Can it wait? I’m rather busy.” Two women had followed Mrs. D’Angelo in, and they had the look of serious shoppers about them. Having finally selected his wife’s gift, the older man asked Jackie for recommendations for his preschool grandchildren. She steered him to our selection of toys, specifically the train set handmade by Alan Anderson.

  Other customers browsed, but none of them seemed to need my attention at the moment, so I said, “Is it important? We’re open late tonight, but we usually have a lull around six.”

  “Very important. Perhaps vitally important, Merry.” Mrs. D’Angelo’s eyes pleaded with me.

  I gave in. “Okay. Let’s go into my office, but I have to warn you, I can’t stay long.” I called to Jackie and Melissa to tell them I was taking a break and led the way through the curtain into the back passage.

  Mattie lifted his head when he heard the office door open. He saw who I was with and lumbered to his feet, tongue lolling, dripping drool, obviously hoping she’d stopped by to bring him a dog biscuit. Instead, Mrs. D’Angelo ignored him. Which isn’t easy, as my office is small and my dog is big.

  “The man across the street. The new renter in the Johannesen house,” she began. I mentally groaned. Not this again. She’d stopped me at least twice this week on my way home after work to ask if I’d seen the new neighbor. I had not. “He was in the house earlier,” she said now. “Shortly after two, the car drove up, the garage door opened automatically, and he went in. The doors closed without him emerging. I realized this was my chance to dash over with my cookies and introduce myself.”

  “You didn’t go before this?” I asked despite myself.

  She shifted uncomfortably. “I was hoping to see him outside, shoveling the walk perhaps, or bringing in the groceries. But no. I haven’t set eyes on anyone since the day he moved in. Very strange, wouldn’t you agree? I wouldn’t want him to think I’ve been spying on him, tracking his movements.”

  “Goodness no, you wouldn’t want that.”

  “Today, I decided it was time. I let him settle in for about fifteen minutes, and then I carried my cookies over and rang the bell.” Dramatic pause. “No one answered. Not a sound came from within. It was so quiet it was uncanny, Merry. Thinking perhaps the bell wasn’t working, although if such was the case it would be unlike Nancy to not have had it fixed before moving out, I knocked. Several times. To which I got no reply.”

  “You keep saying he, but you haven’t seen this person since the first day.”

  “I’ve seen a shape in the car, Merry. When it pulls slowly into the driveway and waits for the garage door to open. Always one person only. The driver. I can’t say for sure it’s a man, but this person has broad shoulders and short hair. As did the man I saw carrying boxes and furniture in on moving day. He wore a ball cap at least once. You don’t suppose another person was lying on the back seat for some reason? Or,” she gasped, “hiding in the trunk?”

  I struggled with what to say. If this new neighbor didn’t want to make friendly with Mrs. D’Angelo, that was clearly the business of no one but him. Unless he did have someone trussed up, gagged, and stuffed into the trunk, but we could probably dismiss that idea for now.

  He, or she, or they, might have been warned their across-the-street neighbor was a notorious busybody and gossip. It didn’t seem to have occurred to Mrs. D’Angelo there might be two men living in the house and they went out separately. “It’s a double garage,” I said. “Do they have two cars?”

  I’d only seen the one set of car tracks, but I didn’t want her to know I’d also been curious.

  “Just the one. A big black SUV. The other half of the garage is piled high with boxes. He must have moved those in while I was at the parade after-party, as I didn’t see them arrive.”

  “Maybe he works shifts,” I said. “And thus he comes and goes at different hours than the rest of us.” He might also be a vampire, moving stealthily by night, avoiding the sunlight. I didn’t mention that.

  “That still doesn’t explain why he didn’t answer the door to me, Merry. I didn’t give him time to go to bed.”

  “Have you asked any of your … uh … friends if they’ve met him?”

  “I put the word out. No one knows. Which I consider to be strange in itself. Donalda—you know Donalda, of course, Merry.” I didn’t, but that didn’t matter. Mrs. D’Angelo was acquainted with an entire underworld of people I’d never heard of. “Donalda stopped by with a casserole. No one answered the door to her either. She left it on the front porch, with a nice little handmade card welcoming them to the neighborhood. Of course, she called me the moment she got home to tell me. I was in the kitchen, making a fresh batch of cookies, when she called, and when I looked outside only moments later”—drumroll—“the casserole dish was gone!”

  “Did Donalda go back for the dish?” I asked, again despite myself.

  “Unfortunately, no. She put it in a disposable aluminum tray, and her note said not to worry about returning it. A serious oversight on her part, wouldn’t you agree, Merry?”

  “Mrs. D’Angelo, I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t know what you can do. If this person, or persons, doesn’t want to answer the door to someone they don’t know, isn’t that entirely up to them?”

  “But, Merry, suppose something is wrong! It’s the responsibility of good small-town neighbors to watch out for each other. To care for each other. Suppose there’s a medical emergency at that house and no one knows about it.”

  “I assume they have a phone,” I said.

  “But I don’t have the number, Merry. I don’t even have a name.” That wasn’t what I meant, but a sudden idea occurred to Mrs. D’Angelo. “Beth and Richard Torrone should have the name of the person they rented the house to. I haven’t spoken to them in years, not since they left Rudolph, but someone should still have their number. Good idea, Merry. I can start there. I do hope it’s not something like John Smith.”

  “Great. Glad to be of help.” I edged toward the door, trying to edge Mrs. D’Angelo along with me. She would not be edged. Disappointed, Mattie had gone back to sleep.

  “Was there something else?” I asked.

  “I did have a reason for discussing this with you, Merry. As you know, I’m not one to interfere in people’s private affairs.” I refrained from laughing out loud. “But I am wondering if we need to alert the police.”

  “The police? About what?”

  “About the new neighbor. Let the police know something seems to be … off over there. As you are such close friends with Diane Simmonds, I thought you might be willing to take that task on.” She smiled at me.

  “First, I’m not friends with Detective Simmonds. I’ve had some contact with her in the past, but only because of … things that happened.”

  “My point precisely. You and she have a professional understanding.”

  “We do not.”

  I might as well not have spoken. “Therefore, I thought, who better to bring the matter to the authorities.”

  I shook my head. “I won’t do that. I have no reason whatsoever to bring this person, or persons, to the attention of the police. Mrs. D’Angelo, if you want my advice, let it go. Leave them alone.”

  Her face pinched in disapproval. “That wouldn’t be at all neighborly of me, Merry.”

  “It would be very neighborly, if it’s what they want.”

  “I … suppose …”

  “I can do one thing,” I said. “I’ll speak to my dad. If the town has any concerns, Dad will know.”

  “Thank you, Merry. As well as Noel, perhaps—”

  “Great. I’m glad we’ve sorted that out.” I leaned around her and opened the door. “If you have any gift shopping to get caught up on, don’t forget Midnight Madness is tomorrow. We’ll be open until midnight for all of your holiday shopping needs.”

  Chapter Five

  Midnight Madness is appropriately named. People come from all over the eastern United States and parts of southern Canada to engage in an orgy of shopping in America’s Christmas Town.

  The night air was cold and crisp, light snow falling. Absolutely perfect. This year the weather seemed to be working in our favor. We can keep the Christmas spirit going through thunderstorms and torrential downpours if we have to, but it’s never easy.

  Once again, the town and the business district association had gone all out to charm our visitors (and get them to open their wallets). The annual snow sculpture contest in the town park was well underway, and visitors were invited to cast their votes for the creation they liked best. The Yuletide Inn, where Mark Grosse is head chef, provided a sleigh pulled by two high-stepping, gaily-adorned horses to ferry shoppers from one end of Jingle Bell Lane to the other, including a stop at the park. A grill outside the butcher provided hot dogs and hamburgers, the candy store served hot chocolate piled high with their homemade marshmallows, and Vicky’s bakery was open and doing a roaring trade in mince tarts and gingerbread. My mother led her adult students through town singing carols, all of them dressed in Charles Dickens–era–appropriate suits or capes, long dresses, and elaborate hats, reading from paper song sheets.

  Dad as Santa walked through town, followed by two high school students dressed as elves, popping in and out of shops, spreading holiday cheer everywhere he went.

  I’d managed to convince Alan to wear his toymaker costume and sit on the bench outside my shop, whittling on a piece of wood. He soon came inside, complaining his hands were getting cold and his mustache was itchy. Whereupon he called Santa Claus and suggested a stop at the bar at A Touch of Holly.

  “He’ll meet me here first.” Alan put his phone away. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “No time for talking,” Jackie said before turning to a new customer with a welcoming smile.

  “We’re almost out of the train sets,” I told Alan. “We had a rush on them this week. I don’t suppose you can make more before Christmas Eve?”

  He shook his head. Too busy over the holiday season to get his hair cut, the blond locks were starting to get into his eyes and curls touching the back of his neck. Alan was not classically handsome, but his tender smile, expressive blue eyes under long, dark lashes, and gentle laugh made him handsome to me. I’m five foot four, and Alan towers over me at a long, lean six feet. We’d been in school together, even casually dated a few times, but I hadn’t known until a couple of years ago that Alan, shy, bashful Alan, had long adored me from afar. On graduation, I headed for college to take art and design and then secured a job at a national lifestyle magazine with offices in Manhattan. Alan stayed behind in Rudoph, building his woodworking business. When I came home at last, he was waiting for me.

  “Sorry, Merry. You’re not my only customer, you know,” he said now. “The toy shop in Rochester put in a rush order for them, and I have a backlog of nutcracker solders to fill.”

  Jackie whipped around. “I’ve just had the most brilliant idea! You could hire Kyle to give you a hand, Alan. He’s short of work at the moment and needing some extra cash.”

  The smile froze on Alan’s face. Kyle Lambert was Jackie’s boyfriend. Hard to think of a less promising employee.

  “Sorry,” Alan said quickly. “I don’t have time to teach anyone the ropes, not this late in the season. I saw Kyle earlier. He’s manning the grill at the butcher shop. I thought he didn’t want to do that anymore.”

  “Yeah, that. He hasn’t been getting much work at the paper lately. When the butcher offered him the job, he wasn’t keen on doing it again, but I asked him, ‘How many times does a grill explode anyway?’ I mean, they got a new one after what happened to the last one. Right?”

  “Totally,” Alan said.

  His dreamed-of career as an avant-garde artist having failed (due to lack of ambition, drive, and talent), Kyle now wanted to make his name and fortune as a professional photographer. He took the odd picture that he sold to the Rudolph Gazette: the girls’ high school basketball team after a win over Muddle Harbor High; spring flowers bursting to life at the Yuletide Inn; participants in the bridge tournament at the seniors’ residence. He hadn’t yet captured the Pulitzer Prize–winning shot of a firefighter fleeing a burning building with a kitten nested in his protective arms, or Detective Diane Simmonds bringing down a murderer in a blaze of gunfire, which he so hoped for.

  His shots of the Santa Claus parade didn’t even make the cut. Instead of using his photos of Jackie in all her seductive elven glory, the paper went with a group of little singers from my mom’s float clutching their sheet music, mouths open in song, eyes bright with the joy of it, fat snowflakes falling on their tiny shoulders. My mom had taken that picture with her phone and didn’t charge the paper for it. Not as long as the copy mentioned the children were enrolled in her vocal classes.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” a deep voice boomed as Dad came into the shop along with Eve. At this time of night, my customers were all adults, but they pretended to be thrilled at meeting the big man himself. Judging by the expression on many of their faces, maybe they weren’t pretending. Pictures were taken of them posing with Dad, something to impress children and grandchildren.

  Eve leaned against the sales counter, trying to keep up the pretext of big-city girl soooo bored at being stuck in her hometown for the holidays. Jackie abandoned her current customer in midsentence and rushed over to interrogate Eve about the famous people she’d met and what her next movie would be. “Things are slow over the holidays,” Eve drawled, “even in Hollywood, so I grabbed the opportunity to come home. I’m expecting a callback for a major role in—” She named one of the biggest shows currently streaming.

  Jackie gasped. “Oh my gosh. I love that show. The clothes alone are enough to keep me watching.”

  Photo opportunity over, Dad jerked his head at me. The customers returned to their browsing, and Jackie continued peppering Eve with questions. My sister’s oh-so-bored facade cracked, just a little, as she reveled in the attention.

  I followed Dad to a momentarily quiet corner next to the holiday tree. I keep a real, fully decorated tree up all year and replace it about once a month. This month it was a Fraser fir, plump and reaching to the ceiling. Strings of lights were tucked between the branches, and small glass decorations glimmered. Those same decorations were displayed for sale on the table next to the tree, with more by the front door to greet shoppers as they entered. “Your phone call yesterday wasn’t the first I’ve heard concerning apparently strange happenings on Broad Street,” Dad said.

  I was shocked. “You mean there’s something to it?”

  “Absolutely and totally not. Mabel D’Angelo has her network of gossips in an uproar over nothing. A new resident or residents have moved in and they are not wanting to make friends, which is entirely their prerogative. To be honest, honeybunch, if they’d been warned about Mabel, I’m not entirely surprised they’re keeping a low profile. It’s also quite possible they’re moving in slowly and have not yet taken residence. You haven’t seen any children around?”

  “No. Nor any signs of them. If there were kids, I’d expect marks in the snow at least.”

  “Right. Meaning there’s nothing for Mabel to see because there’s nothing to see. If they don’t want her cookies, that is also entirely up to them. Maybe they’re vegan or have allergies.”

  “They took Donalda’s casserole in. Do you know someone named Donalda?”

  “Yes. If a meal containing meat was left on my porch, I’d take it in, even if I had no intention of eating it. I don’t want small animals mistaking my house for a self-serve restaurant. I might have to suggest Sue-Anne have a talk with Mabel. No one less than the mayor herself needs to tell her she’s in danger of having a complaint made against her. Everyone in Rudolph is entitled to their privacy.”

  “Somehow, I’m not.”

  He ruffled my curls. “Mabel might be the gossip queen, and she might well have an excessive interest in things that are none of her business, but she’s only curious. She never uses what she knows for her own advantage, other than gaining prestige amongst her gossiping peers. These last years anyway.”

  “What does that mean? Did something happen years ago?”

  My Dad eyed me. “Did you ever wonder why there is no Mr. D’Angelo?”

  “Not really. I assumed they got divorced. I also wondered if the Mrs. is nothing but an old-fashioned courtesy title. She never talks about him, so she’s unlikely to be widowed.”