“Once upon a time there was a Mr. Mabel D’Angelo.”

  “And?”

  “And? What happened to him, no one knows. Have a nice evening, honeybunch. Good evening, madam. May I say, that sweater is a particularly nice color on you. I believe this shop has some silk scarves in the exact same shade.”

  The customer squealed. “Oh, thank you, Santa. I’d love to see them.”

  “This lady will assist you. Now, I must be off. If I’m away from the workshop for too long, some of those naughty elves have been known to take advantage of my absence and slack off.”

  * * *

  Monday morning, I was rearranging the shelves in an attempt to cover up the empty spots. The weekend had been an exceptionally good one saleswise.

  Precisely at opening time, none other than George Mann came into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. Like Mrs. D’Angelo, he hadn’t ever been in my shop before as I recalled, and I greeted him warmly. “Good morning, George. Looks like it’s going to be another nice day.” Temperatures had begun rising yesterday, and all our lovely snow was rapidly melting. When I walked past the park on the way to work, the snow sculptures had been looking somewhat limp and soggy.

  He pulled off his farm-equipment-store ball cap and mumbled something noncommittal about the weather. His gray-and-black hair stood on end, and he looked as though he hadn’t taken time to shave this morning, but his jacket and boots were clean, and the bright baby-blue scarf wrapped around his neck gave him a jaunty pop of color.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Not sure. Have you heard from Mabel over the last couple days?”

  “She was in here on …” I tried to remember. “Friday afternoon. I invited her to come back for Midnight Madness on Saturday. I don’t think I’ve seen her since.”

  “She didn’t come Saturday night?”

  “No. Why are you asking, George?”

  “I thought it might be nice to go out to dinner last night.” Embarrassed, he studied the floor and shifted his feet. George and Mrs. D’Angelo “dated” occasionally, meaning they sometimes went together to town functions. “I called her around noon, left a message, but she didn’t return my call.”

  Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen my landlady over the weekend either. Not standing at her post in the window with her binoculars or out on the porch wired into her network with her cell phone and earbuds. Snow was melting, but a fresh layer of deicer hadn’t been spread on the sidewalk or driveway at our house. “Perhaps she’s gone away. She visits her sister occasionally.”

  “Still no reason not to answer her phone. I tried again last night and then this morning. Went to voice mail.”

  My landlady lived by her phone. It was possible she’d gone to visit her sister and had lost the phone. I mentioned such to George, but he didn’t look convinced. “Do you know her sister’s number?”

  “I don’t even know her sister’s name,” I said. “Wendy might, in case of a problem at the house that needs to be seen to immediately when she’s away. Let’s try Wendy.” I phoned my neighbor, and she did have the number of Mrs. D’Angelo’s sister.

  “Before I call her,” I said, “have you seen Mrs. D since Friday afternoon?”

  “She was shoveling the front walk when I got home from work on Friday. Tina was bellowing that she needed to pee, right now, and I didn’t stop to talk. We were away over the weekend, visiting Steve’s parents, only got back late last night.”

  “Thanks, Wendy. I’ll give her sister a call now.”

  I did so. The sister, whose name was Iris Murdoch, answered. She hadn’t heard from Mabel for about a week. “No reason I should. We don’t talk all that much, not if we don’t have anything to talk about. Do you think something’s wrong?”

  “No, nothing like that. I wanted to talk to her about … something. That’s all. It’ll wait.”

  I studied George’s craggy, worried face. “Why don’t I try Mabel myself. Maybe she’s, uh … not answering you for some reason.” Had Mrs. D’Angelo ghosted George? That was a thought. I made the call. Voice mail informed me the message box was full.

  One shouldn’t read too much into a woman of late middle age not answering her phone for a couple of days. But she did live alone, and accidents did happen.

  “Why don’t we go over there?” I suggested. “She might have lost her phone and is waiting for a replacement.”

  “Good idea. Truck’s outside.”

  I flipped the sign on the door to On coffee run, back soon, locked the door, and followed George to his truck. At this time of morning, he’d been able to park directly outside my store. The truck was roughly the same age as his tractor, meaning probably older than my dad. Good thing I was wearing pants today, I thought as I hoisted myself into the passenger seat. It might be an old vehicle, but it was immaculately clean. A lot cleaner than my car, at any rate.

  George threw it into gear, the engine sputtered and coughed, and we lumbered into Jingle Bell Lane and headed to Broad Steet. The sun was up in a cloudless sky, and the lights of the town’s Christmas tree were off as we passed the park. A real tree occupies the covered bandstand all year round, replaced every month with a fresh one. It’s always decorated seasonally appropriately: red hearts and red and white lights in February; eggs and bunnies and pink and blue lights at Easter; miniature flags and lots of red, white, and blue bunting in July; pumpkin-shaped balls and orange lights in October; turkey and cornucopia decorations in November; and then the all-out December display to mark the highlight of the year. In the rare month that doesn’t have an occasion worth celebrating, the tree is lit anyway, with soft white fairy lights.

  Less than a mile after the park and the bandstand, we pulled up in front of my house, and George and I got out. We climbed the steps to the porch. The cushions were still on the chairs. George pressed the bell. We could hear the faint sound echoing throughout the house. George knocked. We listened. George knocked again.

  No answer.

  We looked at each other. “Should we call the police for a wellness check?” George asked.

  “Give me a minute,” I said. “She’s sure to have a spare key hidden somewhere.”

  Like most law-abiding people of her age, Mrs. D’Angelo never considered that any prospective thief would immediately be able to figure out where she left her spare key, so I found it after a few seconds of searching. Not that I’m a prospective thief, just a concerned friend.

  It was in a small metal box attached to the underside of the porch’s wrought iron tea table by a magnet. I freed the key and held it up to show George. He nodded and knocked again, loud enough to have the house shaking.

  When once again we got no answer, I used the key to slowly open the door. We peered in.

  “Mabel,” George called. “It’s George and Merry. Are you here?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. D’Angelo,” I said, “but we’re worried about you.”

  All was quiet. All the lights were off.

  The house was badly dated in terms of furnishings and decor but clean and uncluttered.

  I called my landlady’s number again, and we listened for the sound of ringing echoing through the house, but we heard nothing. I was once again informed the voice mailbox was full.

  “If her phone’s not here,” I said, “she’s unlikely to be.”

  “Better check. She might have put it on silent or the battery ran down,” George said. He went left, to the living room, dining room, and kitchen, and I went right, to the bathrooms and bedrooms.

  The ceilings were high, the plasterwork ornate, the baseboards tall, and the interior doors thick.

  Once, this house would have had a den, perhaps a library and a morning room. Likely a scullery and a pantry also. In the 1960s when the second floor was converted to apartments and the third floor, the servants’ level, enclosed, excess space on the ground floor had been converted to bedrooms and washrooms. I walked down the dark hallway slowly, my heart pounding in fear of what I might find. All the doors leading off the hall were open. I stepped into each room but didn’t go any farther. I didn’t need to search. Mrs. D’Angelo would be unlikely to have concealed herself beneath the bed and now be unable to get herself out.

  To my intense relief, I saw no signs of my landlady. The two smallest bedrooms were empty of all but a minimal amount of furniture, not even a blanket or duvet on the beds or cases on the pillows. In the larger room at the back of the house, the bed was made, pillows fluffed, a book resting on the night table, the door to what was presumably the closet closed. A pink dressing gown was tossed over a chair and fluffy pink slippers lined up beneath. I recognized that dressing down and those slippers.

  I met up with George by the front door.

  “No sign of her,” he said.

  “That’s good,” I said. “She’s not here. Nothing appears to have been disturbed. Did you find anything in the kitchen?”

  “All looks normal to me. Nothin’ on the table, no dishes in the sink.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Back outside, I returned the key to its hiding place.

  “Better have a peek in the garage,” I said. “Just to be sure.”

  I have a clicker to open the double garage doors attached to my key and did so now. All that was inside was my car and Wendy and Steve’s van. Mrs. D’Angelo didn’t own a car. She sold hers a while ago, saying she so rarely used it, it wasn’t worth what it was costing her. She still had a driver’s license, and on the rare occasion she had a big shopping trip to embark upon and no friend available to go with her or she went out of town, she rented a vehicle.

  George rubbed at his face as the garage doors slid closed once again. “What do we do now, Merry?”

  “Nothing we can do,” I said. “It seems unlikely, highly unlikely, but she might have gone on a spontaneous vacation and simply turned off her phone. Maybe she went to Canada and didn’t get a data plan that works there.”

  George didn’t look all that reassured.

  “All the police can do is what we did,” I said. “A quick look around the house to make sure she isn’t … in distress. I saw her Friday afternoon. It’s now Monday morning. Let’s give it another day or two.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll drive by every now and then, check if the lights have been turned on.”

  “If I hear anything from my place upstairs, I’ll give you a call,” I said.

  We got into the old truck, and George backed out of the driveway. I couldn’t help but take a glance at the house across the street. The lights over the front door and the garage were on, but no car was parked outside and nothing moved behind the windows.

  Chapter Six

  When I locked up the shop and got ready to leave that evening, it was late. Well into December, taking advantage of tourists here for Saturday’s Midnight Madness, the shops on Jingle Bell lane stayed open until eight. I’d tried Mrs. D’Angelo’s number once again. The voice mailbox had not been emptied.

  Mattie and I walked down Jingle Bell Lane heading home, past the brightly lit shops and the bustling restaurants. The lights of the town Christmas tree, accompanied by the glow of decorations from the houses, illuminated the dark midwinter’s night. At our house, the holiday light display, flashing blubs of alternate blue, red, and green, were on, but that didn’t mean Mrs. D’Angelo had been home: They were controlled by a timer. Lights glowed behind curtains in Wendy and Steve’s apartment next to mine, but downstairs, the interior of the house was dark. The weekend’s snow had completely melted, so I couldn’t even check for footprints on the path leading to Mrs. D’Angelo’s porch.

  Mattie and I went around the back and climbed the stairs to the second floor. As I fitted the key into the lock on my door, I could hear the low buzz of high-pitched cartoon voices coming from the other apartment. I let Mattie and me in and pulled off my boots with a welcome sigh. Holiday season was great. Until it wasn’t. Mattie ran for his bowls, and I went to the front windows, intending to pull the curtains closed. Instead I stood there for a long time, looking out.

  Cars drove slowly down the street, a few dog walkers were enjoying a post-dinner stroll, two women jogged past.

  The house across the street had put up no holiday display; plain white bulbs glowed above the garage and front door. The same lights had been on in the middle of the day.

  I tried to remember if that house kept their outdoor lights on all the time. I was pretty sure they hadn’t been on other days, but anyone could forget to turn them off in the daytime.

  Which meant absolutely nothing, if the residents had gone away for a few days and wanted the lights kept on to deter burglars.

  Perhaps it was time to contact the police about Mrs. D’Angelo’s sudden absence. I took my phone out of my pocket and twisted it between my fingers. Mattie gave me a nudge to remind me it was past his dinnertime. It was past my dinnertime too. I put the phone away and went into the kitchen. I served up Mattie’s dinner, and while he inhaled it, I studied the meager contents of my fridge. I’d been so busy this past week, I hadn’t had time to go grocery shopping.

  I returned to the front window and studied the Johannesen house. I pulled my phone out once again and made a call. “Feel like going out for pizza?”

  “No,” Vicky said. “I do not. I’ve had dinner, and it’s after nine. I’m getting ready for bed. Such is the exciting life of a baker at Christmastime.”

  “Is Mark home?”

  “Still at work. His life is as exciting as mine is these days. You know that, Merry. Why are you calling? Is something the matter?”

  I hadn’t called Vicky hoping she’d be up for pizza. I didn’t feel much like pizza myself. “Sort of. I’m not sure.”

  “Spill.”

  I told her my worries about Mrs. D’Angelo. “George and I checked the house this morning, and nothing appears to have been disturbed. Her phone isn’t ringing in the house, which means either it’s run out of power or it isn’t there, and I didn’t see it.”

  “She’s a grown woman, Merry. She’s allowed to come and go without checking in with you.”

  “I know all that, but … it’s so uncharacteristic of her, and I am worried. She occasionally visits her sister, but her sister hasn’t heard from her lately either.”

  A long silence came down the line.

  “What do you want to do?” Vicky asked. “I’ll go to the police with you, if you need company.”

  “I might go to the police in the morning. They, at least, could find out if she rented a car. They likely won’t tell me what they learn, but if they don’t follow up, then I’ll know she’s safe. But … I want to check something first. Can you come over? If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “You know you only have to ask. Check what?”

  “Mrs. D’Angelo’s been extremely interested in the goings-on of the new people, or person, who moved in across the street to the place she still calls the Johannesen house. She considers their behavior to be suspicious, although I think they’re nothing but people wanting their privacy. I’m wondering if it’s possible she started peeking in windows and maybe had a fall or something.”

  “Or something.”

  “No one seems to be home. The lot’s a big one and deep. If Mrs. D’Angelo is calling for help from the back, she might not be heard from the street.”

  “Has Mattie reacted? Like tried to check out that house or anything?”

  “No.” If he did hear someone calling for help, I liked to think my dog would try to investigate. But if the woman was lying unconscious in the dark? Perhaps not, not if his mind was focused on dinnertime. Although his breed originated to assist people lost in winter storms on the treacherous paths through the Swiss Alps, Mattie himself was most definitely not a search-and-rescue dog.

  “I’m sure you’re worrying about nothing, but to put your mind at rest, I’m on my way. Ten minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mattie and I were standing on the sidewalk nine minutes later when Vicky drove up in her sporty little Miata. She didn’t get the convertible out much in the wintertime, but tonight she didn’t want to take the time to walk over to my place.

  Together we studied the building across the street. “It’s a lovely old house,” Vicky said, “and nicely maintained, but there’s something about houses that age that give off a spooky feeling in the right light. Might be all that gingerbread, the ornate trim, the deep, dark recesses. That, plus it’s the only place on the street without Christmas lights. Some of the houses in Rudolph are so well lit they might be signaling to space aliens. Lead on.”

  No traffic was coming, and we ran across the street. I watched Mattie carefully but saw no unusual signs of alarm or alertness. He simply trotted happily at my side, out for our regular postprandial stroll.

  We stepped off the sidewalk and walked boldly up the driveway and down the walk. As we reached the front steps, Mattie started sniffing at the ground.

  “He senses something,” Vicky said.

  “Just unexplored territory. He’s never been here before.”

  We climbed the steps. I rang the bell and heard the faint echoes of the sound bouncing around inside. In case someone was home, I intended to ask permission before poking around the property.

  We waited. I did not hear footsteps approaching.

  “Do these people have a dog?” Vicky asked.

  “Not that I’ve seen any evidence of.”

  Vicky pointed down. Mattie’s ears were up, the long hairs on his neck standing on end. He let out a low whine, crouched low, and scratched rapidly at the door with both front paws.

  “Might be a mouse,” I said.

  “Might be. Might not be. Shush.”

  I shushed.

  I heard a creak. Might be a floorboard. Might be an old house shifting and settling, although the night was calm and no wind blew.

  And then I heard something else, something sounding like a muffled cry. Mattie barked and began scratching at the door with renewed enthusiasm.