“Cole House is supposedly haunted,” I said. “Did—”

  “It is not haunted. There is no such thing. I’m not hearing ghosts, Merry.”

  She’d shot that suggestion down so quickly, I knew I’d hit the mark. “Not ghosts themselves, but is it possible you’re thinking, even subconsciously, about ghosts?”

  She thought for a while. “Maybe. Hard to say what I’m thinking subconsciously, right?”

  Vicky was anything but a fanciful person. She was about the last one, other than my father, I’d suspect of imagining ghosts.

  “Have you told Mark?”

  “I decided not to. He’d worry I’m having doubts about getting married. About living in that house. About being with him. I don’t want him to think that. I just need to get the wedding over with, the house business settled, and my book finished. Then I’ll be okay.” She sprang to her feet. “Best friend session over. Thanks, Merry. I’m glad I got that off my chest. All will be okay now.”

  I wasn’t so sure. I thought about asking her what “house business” she was talking about. They’d knowingly and willingly taken on renovations that would take years; was Vicky only now understanding what an all-consuming chore that would be? It was possible she’d heard a mouse in the ceiling or squirrels in the attic; branches rubbing against the eaves troughs or the loose bricks of the old chimneys on a windy night—throwing her imagination into overdrive. Vicky was levelheaded and thoroughly practical. I like to think I’m all that too, but Cole House gave me the creeps. Even in broad daylight with my friends around me. I couldn’t imagine being alone there at night.

  I decided to say nothing more, and we set about prowling the dress shops of Rudolph. Not that there are a lot of nice women’s wear stores in Rudolph, but Vicky, as a proud supporter of local businesses, refused to go out of town. That, plus the fact that her aunt owns Jayne’s Ladies Wear, and word would get around fast enough if Vicky went someplace else.

  Jayne’s Ladies Wear sounds as though it sells the sort of garments your grandmother would wear to a church tea, but it’s unexpectedly well stocked with fun, modern clothes.

  Vicky might want a low-key wedding, but if there is one thing Vicky Casey herself is not, it’s low key.

  “Nothing white,” Vicky said as we waited for the light to change, to cross the street. “I look hideous in white.”

  “Rubbish. You look marvelous in everything.” And she did. The so-short hair worked on her because it accented the fabulous bone structure of her pale, heart-shaped face. As for clothes—everything looks good on her. At five foot eleven, Vicky is a good six inches taller than me, and because she’s nothing but a ball of energy, she’s rail thin. Whereas I, who don’t bake all day for a living, am not rail thin. Her makeup is always dramatic: a slash of deep red lipstick on her full lips, and thick black mascara and liner that emphasize her expressive blue eyes.

  The little man in the traffic lights appeared, and Vicky and I hurried across the intersection. I’d left Mattie at the store. Lots of businesses allow dogs inside these days, but not many would be pleased to admit a full-sized, drooling, male Saint Bernard, no matter how friendly he might be. It was a Wednesday and we were unlikely to be too busy, so I reluctantly left Jackie to supervise Melissa, my new part-time assistant. Reluctantly, because although Jackie was a great store clerk, she could have delusions of grandeur when it came to her rank in the hierarchy and attitude toward new employees.

  “I’m thinking two outfits,” Vicky said as we entered the store. “Something sedate, cream and lace maybe, to wear in church. And then a party dress for dinner.”

  “That would be great.” I glanced at her, pleased to see that some light was coming back into her eyes and the tired heaviness leaving. I told myself that Vicky had a lot on her mind. We were in our early thirties, and Vicky had lived on her own in a miniscule apartment since college. Living with someone else, in a large, strange old house, would be a big change for her. I considered having a quiet word with Mark later, to let him know what was going on, but I decided not to. Not yet, anyway. She would not thank me for interfering.

  Vicky’s mother ran in a couple of minutes after us, bubbling over with joy. I take after my father far more than my mother, but Vicky and her mom could be twins except for the age difference. Michelle isn’t quite as tall as her daughter, and the extra years have added a couple of pounds, but the eyes have identical sparkles, the smile is as infectious, and she excludes the same excitement and energy.

  She took one look at Vicky and said, “You’re not getting enough sleep. I hope you’re not working on that house at all hours.”

  “We’re not. Don’t worry, Mom—I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. Merry, tell her to slow down sometimes.”

  “As if anything I say is going to help.”

  “True enough. No one knows that better than I do,” Michelle said. “How’s the cookbook coming?”

  “Slowly but steadily.”

  “I might think you’re taking on too much, but you’re young and healthy. You can recover fast enough.”

  “I seem to recall,” Vicky said, “stories of you burning the candle at all ends when you were in nursing school and Dad was trying to start his practice. On top of that you had two kids.”

  Michelle and Vicky smiled identical smiles at each other. “Sometimes,” Michelle said, “I still think I’m burning the candle at all ends. Particularly with all the cutbacks at the hospital.”

  “As for the book,” I said, “when it comes to nonfiction, publishers and agents don’t want to see the final result. They want a proposal. I’ll send you an email on what that entails. Get it done first, and we can start sending it out while you continue working on your recipes.”

  “Already started,” Vicky said. “Yet another thing on the to-do list.”

  I wandered off to check out a row of dresses. As I moved away, Michelle lowered her voice and said, “Your dad told me about that issue regarding the house. Have you heard anything more?”

  “I’m not getting involved, Mom. Mark’s handling it.”

  I’d turned to ask what they were talking about, when Jayne swept up with a bundle of clothes in her arms. “This is so exciting. I’m sure we’ll find the perfect thing for you, Vicky.”

  We had a fun couple of hours. Michelle and Jayne had good taste and a good eye for dressing Vicky. We carefully pointed out that the seafoam green dress she originally wanted to wear to the church might, with its thigh-revealing length and curve-clinging outline, be not entirely appropriate. “My darling brother, Roy,” Michelle said, “has a relaxed attitude to what people wear to church these days, and he’s welcoming to everyone no matter how they appear, but …”

  “But,” I said, “that one’s a firm no.”

  Eventually we settled on a knee-length, off-white dress with elbow-length sleeves and a cropped silver jacket for the church, and something much more “Vicky” for the dinner: a candy-cane concoction with a tightly fitted pink bodice and a multicolored skirt made up of layers of tulle petticoats. Vicky twirled in front of the mirror, and Michelle, Jayne, and I applauded. “Mark’s tall enough that I can wear those stiletto heels I haven’t gotten much use of yet to church,” Vicky said. “And then something with a flatter heel for dancing at the dinner. But not too much flatter.”

  Michelle insisted on paying for the dresses, and Vicky gave her mom a huge hug. Jayne and I joined in. “I’d like to say this was such fun we should do it again,” Michelle said when we’d separated, “but I hope you won’t need to go wedding dress shopping again, dear.”

  “I won’t,” Vicky said firmly. Michelle and I exchanged smiles. That’s what every bride says, but I sincerely hoped in this case it was true.

  “Will your parents understand that Vicky wants to keep the guest list down?” Michelle asked me as we left the store, Vicky swinging her bags.

  “Not a problem. My mom and dad know just about everyone in town. They can’t go to every celebration.” Although my dad tries to.

  “I’m on night shift this week,” Michelle said, “so I need to get home for a short nap. Talk to you later, dear.” She gave Vicky a quick kiss and hurried away. Michelle was an ER nurse at the hospital.

  “Time for coffee?” Vicky asked me.

  “Better not. That new girl I hired to replace Chrystal started last week, and I dare not keep her under Jackie’s supervision for long.”

  We were about to go our separate ways when an angry shout had us turning around. “You there! Mrs. Grosse!” A man was heading toward us with angry, determined steps. He was in his early sixties, wearing badly fitting jeans and a far-from-new New York Giants T-shirt. It wasn’t a particularly warm day, but drops of sweat dripped from his thinning hairline, and his round face was red with rage. He was not much taller than me and sported a belly the size of a basketball. He shoved his finger in Vicky’s face.

  She swatted it away. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “You’re Mrs. Grosse, right?” He spat out the words.

  “As it happens,” Vicky said calmly, “I am not.”

  His shoulders slumped, some of the anger faded from his face, and he took a step backward. Then he focused his attention on me. “You?”

  “Nope.”

  He took another step back and held out his hands. “Sorry, ladies. I must have made a mistake. I asked at a couple of the shops, and they described a woman a lot like you. Do you know her?”

  “If I did,” Vicky said, “I’d be unlikely to send you after her. What do you want with her, anyway?”

  “Nothing. I’ve no argument with her, but I’ve been leaving messages for her husband, and he’s not returning my calls.”

  “I wonder why?” I said under my breath. He gave me a filthy look. I stood my ground.

  “Mr. Cole, I presume,” Vicky said.

  I threw her a look.

  “Got it in one,” he said. “Jim Cole. If you know Mrs. Grosse, you can tell her I need to talk to her and her husband. And soon.”

  “Other than Mark’s mother, who doesn’t live anywhere near here, I know no Mrs. Grosse.” Vicky stood a bit taller; she pulled her shoulders back. She loomed over the man, staring him down. He shifted nervously, sensing something he didn’t like in her demeanor. I put myself on alert, although I didn’t have a clue what was going on. “I’m glad we ran into each other, Jim. Now you’re here, perhaps we should have a chat after all. I am not Mrs. Grosse, but I know you’ve been bothering Mr. Grosse. I know he told you he’d talk to you through his lawyer. As that lawyer happens to be my father, I know you’re not doing that. So, I’d like to ask you, as politely as possible, to get lost and leave us alone.”

  His eyes turned toward me. I attempted to look as stern as Vicky did.

  “I only want what’s mine,” he said.

  “No, Jim,” Vicky said. “You want what’s mine. Mine and Mark’s. Allow me to assure you, you are not going to get it.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that, whatever your name is. I’ve been asking around town about Grosse. He’s a cook at a hotel. Whether you’re his wife or not, you’re a baker. I doubt you two have the money to put up a fight in court. When I win, as I will, I’ll be asking for expenses and damages. Think it over,” he said. “Talk it over.”

  He turned around and walked away, full of righteous indignation. The image he was trying to project was spoiled somewhat when he turned to give Vicky one last malicious glare and ran full on into none other than my mother, coming down the street with her own shopping bags. He stepped on her foot, and she yelped in pain.

  “Excuse me,” she said in that voice that once carried to the upper balconies of the great opera houses of Europe. “Can you not watch where you are going, sir?”

  “Sorry, sorry.” He slipped away.

  We all watched him go.

  “From where I stood, that confrontation appeared to be tense,” Mom said. “I decided to step out of the wings and hurry him on his way.”

  “Nicely done, Aline,” Vicky said. “Thanks, but we’re okay. Nothing but a miserable little man trying to make himself sound important.”

  “Miserable little men can cause a lot of problems. Hopefully you’ve seen the last of him. May I congratulate you on your engagement, dear?”

  “You most certainly can.”

  “I’ll look forward to Noel and me receiving our invitation to the wedding.” Mom’s eyes dropped to the heavy bags Vicky was carrying. “Doing some shopping?”

  “No time to talk, Mom,” I said. “We’re going for a coffee. Catch you later.”

  I half dragged Vicky down Jingle Bell Lane. I glanced in the window of Mrs. Claus’s as we passed, and was pleased to see both Jackie and Melissa interacting with customers. Vicky and I went into Cranberry Coffee Bar, mostly empty in the late afternoon, and I grabbed a table by the window. “Sit,” I ordered for the second time that day.

  Vicky sat.

  “Okay, first, don’t worry about my mom expecting a wedding invitation. I can convince her it’s nothing personal.”

  “I’d like to have her and your dad. They’ve always been like second parents to me. She stepped into that guy’s path deliberately—did you notice?”

  “I did notice, but that’s not the point here. Obviously, there’s something you didn’t tell me. What’s going on and what’s that about lawyers? You called that man Cole; is he related to the late Emmeline? And what is it Mark and your dad are handling? Is that why you’re not sleeping? Nothing to do with noises in the night?”

  Vicky shrugged. “The noises are happening, yes. I think so, anyway, although I will admit I’ve been lying awake with other things on my mind, so I might be overreacting. As for the Cole issue, I’m leaving it up to Mark and Dad to sort out. Jim Cole is, so he says, a descendent of the man who built the house. Our house. He claims he should have inherited on Emmeline’s death, and her lawyers had no right to sell the house out from underneath him. His words. Because according to him, the house rightfully belongs to him.”

  “Does he have grounds for that claim?”

  “Dad says no. Jim’s trying to make a nuisance of himself, hoping to get something from an out-of-court settlement.”

  “What’s his relationship to the family?”

  “His grandfather, Henry Cole, built the house. Jim is a grandson of Henry. Meaning he’s a cousin of Emmeline, not a descendent of her father, Charles. Charles Cole’s will specified that the house was to remain in the family until his own line ended. Which it did with Emmeline’s death. Jim claims his father was much younger than his brother, more the age of a son, and when he said descendent, Charles meant for his brother’s children to be included.”

  “I don’t know much about the laws of inheritance, but it sounds pretty iffy to me. Does Jim have anything in writing?”

  “No. Which is why Dad says the claim is completely without merit. Charles Cole died when Jim was a small child. He can’t know what his father and uncle intended, and he has no letters between them recording Charles’s thoughts on the matter. Dad doesn’t expect it will even get to court. In Emmeline Cole’s will she left everything—and it seems all she had, other than a bit of cash and a few stocks, is the house—to charity. She instructed that the house be sold and the money received be given to the charities she specified. Notably, Jim Cole was not mentioned anywhere in her will. Not even given a pittance or a memento. My dad, as the lawyer and executor of her estate, will argue, if it comes to it, she didn’t mention Jim because she saw no reason for him to have anything of hers. Including the house. From what information Dad’s been able to get, Jim had no contact whatsoever with his cousin Emmeline for years. Decades. As for whose fault that was, or why, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Merry and Vicky,” the barista called. “Can I get you something?”

  Vicky shook her head, and I said, “Sorry, no. We needed a place to talk. Is that okay?”

  “Stay as long as you like.”

  “You need to tell Mark and your dad he accosted you,” I said.

  “Yeah. I do. Mark’ll have a fit. He considers the whole thing to be a minor irritation, but it’s not good that Jim’s come to town.”

  “Not just ‘come to town,’ but he’s been asking about you guys. That must mean he’s taking this seriously. Does he live in the area?”

  “I’ve no idea, Merry.” She stood up. “I’m going back to the bakery. I need to get some prep done for tomorrow. I’ll call Dad and Mark from there. I’m sorry our day got spoiled.”

  “It wasn’t spoiled,” I said. “It was great fun, and you got two fabulous outfits to wear on your wedding day. Never mind that minor hiccup at the end. We might never see him again. The look on my mother’s face when he stepped on her foot would be enough to scare anyone out of town.”

  She gave me that Vicky grin, and I was pleased to see it.

  “Don’t keep anything else from me, okay? Anything else bothering you, let me know.”

  Chapter Six

  My father’s family has lived in Rudolph for as long as there’s been a town here on the southern shores of Lake Ontario. He was the mayor for many years, and he’s still on the town council. Plus, he’s Santa Claus.

  He knows just about everything that is happening, or has happened, in town.

  He also, I sometimes suspect, can read my mind.

  I wasn’t entirely sure Jim Cole would turn out to be as harmless as Vicky seemed to think. I wasn’t all that sure Vicky believed it either. Even if he had no rightful claim to their house, he could make a darn nuisance of himself. After our chat in Cranberries, I decided to find out what I could about the Cole inheritance. My dad would be a good place to start.

  As I said: he reads my mind. Even from the other side of town.

  Jackie and Melissa had finished work for the day, and I was getting ready to close up when my father came in. “Hey, honeybunch.” He was dressed in a pair of well-loved jeans and a plain oatmeal sweater over a blue shirt. Even out of “uniform” Dad looks like Santa, with his bushy gray beard, mass of gray curls, red nose and cheeks, cheerful blue eyes, and substantial round belly.