He stopped walking. “Fair enough. Will you keep me posted if something comes up?”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  I expected Mom and Dad to be fully appraised about what had happened, but I had not expected so many of the surviving members of the Rudolph Community Theater Players to have assembled at their house already.

  I knew something was up the moment Mattie and I turned the corner, and I spotted a driveway full of cars, and more lining the street in front of the three-story red brick Victorian house on a large lot in which I’d grown up. The garden had been put away for the winter, leaves raked, bushes wrapped in burlap, flowerbeds turned over. My dad would have loved to trim every bit of exposed foliage with blinking Christmas lights and erect a blow-up Santa riding in a sled pulled by nine reindeer on the front lawn, but the year they bought the house, my mom put her foot firmly down and it has stayed down ever since. Instead the roof line was trimmed with a single row of small, tasteful white bulbs and each entrance adorned with a huge live wreath of evergreen branches accented with a red velvet bow.

  I let myself in through the kitchen door, to be greeted by a babble of voices coming from the front room. I settled Mattie with a bowl of water and a slice of cold ham I snatched out of the fridge and went to join them.

  Apart from Mom and Dad, there must have been twenty people crammed into the living room. If I didn’t know better I’d have thought they were having a party. Coffee and tea things were laid out on the dining room table, and more than a few people held bottles of beer or glasses of wine.

  Things had happened so fast, I hadn’t had time to give a great deal of thought as to who might have killed Paula Monahan. Russ’s questions made me pause and have a close look at the assembled group. Did Paula’s death have something to do with the play? Was one of these people a killer?

  I shook my head. Far more likely, as I’d said myself, Paula had another enemy or enemies.

  “Here she is now,” Dad said.

  As one the group turned to me. They all started talking at once.

  “Let the poor girl speak,” Dad said. He got up and came to stand next to me. “If you don’t want to, that’s okay, honeybunch.”

  “I’m fine Dad. I don’t have much to say. You heard Paula collapsed in my store earlier and was taken to the hospital?”

  People muttered and shook their heads in disbelief.

  “I wasn’t there at the time. I mean, I was there, but not there.”

  “What does that mean?” Catherine Renshaw cradled a glass of white wine in her perfectly manicured hands. “Bruce and I were in your store not more than an hour or two ago. You were there then.”

  “I wasn’t in the store itself,” I explained. “I was in the back. When I came out, I … found her. After it was over. The paramedics arrived and took her to the hospital.”

  “She died,” Desmond said.

  I nodded.

  “Heart attack, do you think?” Dave French asked. “She was a young woman, comparatively speaking, but you never know, do you?”

  “Rachel called me,” Ian McIntosh said. “She was picking up a quick lunch at Cranberry Coffee Bar next door to Merry’s shop, and she arrived moments after the ambulance did. The substantial police presence, including a detective showing up mighty darn quick, would indicate they don’t think it’s natural causes. Is that right, Merry?”

  “They’re investigating the possibility of foul play,” I said.

  “Preposterous,” Irene said. “The poor dear had a heart attack. The police like to find any excuse to use their budget.”

  “Not always,” my dad said. “We want them to take these things seriously, and time is important.” He put his arm around me. “Can I get you a drink? Or coffee?”

  “No, thanks, Dad. I’m fine. Paula came into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures not long after you left, Catherine. Did you see her on the street?”

  Catherine started. “Me? I did not.”

  “I was at Cranberries at the same time Rachel was,” Irene said. “Jackie came in and we talked about the play for a couple of minutes.” She couldn’t help taking a surreptitious peek at Catherine from the corner of her eyes as she spoke. Catherine gave her an unfriendly glare in return, and the wardrobe mistress quickly looked away. “She left and a few minutes later we heard the commotion. Someone said Jackie’s been arrested. Surely not. The idea’s ridiculous.”

  “Not arrested,” I said. “Taken for questioning. That’s different.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Ian said. “You, Merry, said you found Paula, but you weren’t taken in for questioning. You’re standing right here.”

  “Jackie did want the part of Mrs. Cratchit,” Irene said.

  “Enough,” my mom declared in the voice that would easily reach the upper balcony at one of the great opera houses of Europe. “We will not go there. No one killed Paula to get a better part in the play.”

  “Maybe they mistook her for you, Catherine.” Desmond smiled as he said the words, but I saw no hint of humor behind it.

  Ian laughed and, under the focus of Catherine’s glare, he flushed and quickly turned the laugh into a strangled cough.

  “Most amusing,” Catherine sniffed. “We look nothing alike. Perhaps they mistook her for you, Desmond.”

  “Stupid idea,” Dave said.

  Irene muttered something that might have been, “Not so stupid.”

  I also wasn’t sure. That was an avenue Detective Simmonds might want to explore. Paula and Catherine didn’t look at all alike, but their body shapes were similar. Same height, same approximate weight, same shoulder-length brown hair. Today, they’d both been in black coats with blue scarves. Catherine’s clothes were finer and more expensive than Paula’s, but the killer might not have stopped to notice those details. Did he see her from the back, think he recognized the woman in the long black winter coat and blue scarf going into the store, and follow? Perhaps merely intending to have words.

  They, whoever they were, had only seconds to act—to see the store was empty, Paula was alone, decide to make their move, grab the scarf and twist it, kill the woman, and then flee. Had they acted in such a rush, and so impulsively, they got the wrong person?

  A cold shiver ran down the back of my neck as I pictured the scene when I found Paula. Lying face down on the floor, scarf tight around her throat, twisted at the back of her neck. The police would be able to say for sure, but as far as I could tell she’d been attacked from behind. She likely didn’t even see her attacker.

  “Why don’t you sit down, honeybunch?” Dad said. “You’ve a right to be upset.”

  Mom threw me a worried look, and I smiled at them both. “I’m fine. I came to fill you in, but I see word got ahead of me. As it does.”

  “Regarding our production, Paula wasn’t at all important in the scheme of things,” Desmond said. “Jackie’s the understudy and a keen one at that. She can take the role. Irene, you should have time to adjust the dress to fit Jackie. She’s taller than Paula, but it shouldn’t much matter.”

  “I hardly think casting should be our biggest concern right now,” Ian said.

  “As I am not about to play amateur detective and solve the case for the police, it is my focus, yes. I’m sorry Paula died. She’d been a valuable member of our little group over the years, but what’s done is done. We’ll have to find another boy to play Tiny Tim. Unlikely Eddie’s father will want him to continue in the play.”

  “One of Andrea Hopkins’s boys might do,” a woman said. “They’re twins and the right age, and she’s in the chorus.”

  Rather heartless, I thought, but then again these theater people could be single-minded. I snuck a peek at Mom. She was watching me, an expression of concern on her face, and I gave her a wry grin.

  “You’ve decided to stay on as director, Desmond?” Irene said. “I’m glad to hear it. The production needs your steady hand. If you stay, I’ll stay.”

  Desmond threw a not entirely friendly look at Catherine. She avoided his eyes. Dave said, “About that. As long as we’re all here—I’ve been thinking about Scrooge. A younger person playing him will help to entice younger people to come. I—”

  “Not that again. And not now!” Mom said. “Over the long, and I might say successful, years of my career, I was involved in many nontraditional presentations of classic opera. Not all of them entirely effective. I am reminded of the time I quit that ridiculous production of Wagner in Paris because the director decided the Valkyries, of whom I was one, would be dressed in schoolgirl uniforms. He wanted to make some sort of statement about the repressed power of young women today that—”

  Dad cleared his throat. “A story for another time, dear. Your point is?”

  “My point is, I can be as artistically adventurous and as avant-garde as the next person.”

  Dad and I exchanged glances. To our credit, neither of us laughed.

  “A Christmas Carol, however, is not to be trifled with. It, more than most works, is firmly locked in time and place. That is what people expect. That is its appeal. The tradition of the Christmas season and the emotions it arouses.”

  “Thank you for your opinion, Aline,” Catherine said. “I’ll keep that in mind. You are, of course, highly valued as a soloist and our musical director, but you are not in charge of casting. I myself agree with Dave.” She smiled at him. He smiled back.

  Ian threw her a look that would curdle the mug of warm milk a child left out for Santa on Christmas Eve. “You two had better get that sorted, and fast. If I’m not playing Scrooge, I’m walking.”

  “That would be unfortunate, but it is your decision.” Catherine stared at him. Ian’s face tightened further but he turned away. A brief look of satisfaction crossed her own face, to be quickly wiped away.

  Everyone began talking at once. The general consensus, it seemed to me, was that, other than Dave, the cast were on Ian’s side and they didn’t care for Catherine’s proposed changes. I glanced at Catherine. The expression on her perfectly composed face told me she didn’t much care what the rest of them thought.

  I whispered to my dad, “This conversation seems to have moved far beyond its original intent. I’m leaving. I want to head back to the store and check on things. I honestly don’t trust some of those heavy-handed cops not to knock over my china dishes or smash my porcelain dolls.”

  Before I could make my escape, Mattie let out a joyous yelp from the kitchen. Seconds later, the doorbell rang.

  Dad left the living room and returned with Detective Diane Simmonds and Officer Williams.

  Simmonds raised one eyebrow when she saw me. “I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here, but I am. You travel fast, Merry.”

  “Not as fast as the news, it would appear.”

  “Can I get you a drink, Diane?” Dad asked. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Coffee’d be good, thanks, Noel. I had to leave the office in somewhat of a rush. Black, no sugar.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” said Officer Williams.

  “I’ll get it,” I said.

  Mom stood up. This sudden infusion of company must have come as a surprise to her, but she was dressed for the occasion in a slim-fitting beige skirt with a blue silk shirt, a long silver chain, and earrings of blue sea glass. Her hair was folded behind her head in a chignon, and her makeup perfect but subtle. “Welcome, Detective. We’re having an emergency meeting of the Rudolph Community Theater Players. One of our number has died, and we spontaneously gathered to remember her and to decide if and how to proceed with our production.” She made the introductions in a volley of names and positions with the company. I had not the slightest doubt Diane Simmonds would remember them all.

  I handed her a cup of coffee. She did not take a seat. She looked at everyone in turn. Some people returned the look with a vague smile, others fidgeted and glanced nervously away.

  Catherine stood up. She crossed the room and extended her hand. “Catherine Renshaw, Artistic Director. So pleased to meet you, Detective. My husband and I are newly arrived in Rudolph. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.” She talked as though most newcomers went to the trouble of introducing themselves to the local police. I wondered if Catherine or her husband had ambitions in our town beyond community theater. Such as the mayor’s office.

  Simmonds accepted the handshake. “I’m pleased to find you gathered here. It will save me some time. Speaking of time, let’s get straight to the point.”

  “Paula. Please, what happened to Paula?” Irene asked. “Rumors are flying left and right. Is she …?”

  “Paula Monahan died earlier today,” Simmonds said.

  “That’s what we heard. I hoped that was wrong,” Irene said.

  People muttered; some bowed their heads. One woman crossed herself and another mouthed a silent prayer. No one spoke.

  Simmonds sipped her coffee and studied the room. Finally, she broke the silence. “Before I begin, do any of you have contact information for Mrs. Monahan’s husband? I paid a visit to their house but no one’s at home.”

  Everyone glanced at everyone else and exchanged shrugs.

  “The only number I have for her is her cell,” Irene said. “Not many people have house phones these days.”

  “His number might be at the theater office. AKA my house,” Desmond said. “We keep emergency contact information, insurance details, and the like for everyone involved. I don’t have it with me.”

  “If we haven’t had any success otherwise, I’ll accompany you to get that when we’re finished here,” Simmonds said.

  “Did you try calling the school?” Irene asked. “Paula teaches at Rudolph High. Classes are finished for the Christmas break, but the school office should be open today.”

  Simmonds nodded to the uniform, instructing him to make the call. He slipped out of the house. “Various witnesses have told me there’s been some dissent in your group,” she said. “Is that correct?”

  Catherine and Desmond laughed. Irene choked. Ian said, “You might say that,” in a voice not designed to carry.

  “We’re treating the death of Mrs. Monahan as a homicide.” Simmonds paused, allowing everyone to express their shock, surprise, and dismay. Then she said, “The question I have for you all is, do any of you know of any reason someone might have wanted to cause her harm?”

  Silence. More exchanging of looks.

  Williams came back. “Answering machine says the office is closed for the weekend.”

  “Track down the principal or administrator and tell them what we need.”

  He slipped out again.

  Detective Simmonds would have a heck of a lot on her plate in the hours immediately after a homicide. You wouldn’t know that by her demeanor. She sipped her coffee. She said nothing, waiting everyone out. Someone would be bound to break the silence eventually.

  Irene did. “I’d have been happy to bump her off just to get rid of that horrid son of hers. Sorry, bad joke.”

  “Was it a joke?” Simmonds asked.

  “Yes! I mean, yes, of course.”

  “Go on.”

  “Paula’s son, Eddie, was cast as Tiny Tim. He’s a bully, and she indulges … indulged him rather than getting him under control. In my opinion, he was totally unsuitable for Tiny Tim, but casting decisions were made elsewhere.”

  “By which she means it was my decision,” Desmond said. “As you well know, Irene. Eddie was the best option. Some of the girls in the children’s chorus are excellent performers, but the boys are less than inspiring.”

  “I still can’t understand why you always have to be so hidebound and cast according to preconceived ideas,” Dave said. “Things like Scrooge’s age. What does it matter?”

  “Not this again!” Desmond leapt to his feet and headed for the dining room table where the drinks had been laid out.

  “Paula was an excellent Mrs. Cratchit,” Catherine said, “She wanted her son on stage with her. I had no objections.”

  “Once again, might I remind you that casting is not supposed to be your responsibility,” Ian said.

  “What, pray tell, do you think is my responsibility if not oversight of the entire production?” Catherine snapped.

  “It’s supposed to be mine.” Desmond poured red wine with a heavy hand. “You can handle the table settings.”

  “Staying on that subject,” Irene said. “I hope someone has told Jackie O’Reilly she’s now going to play Mrs. Cratchit. I saw her in town shorty before the fuss started but not since. She’ll need to be informed. She’s going to be very pleased.”

  Simmonds said nothing to that, and neither did I.

  “It would appear casting changes are going to be made, whether you want them or not, Desmond.” Dave drained his beer bottle and stood up. “If you have nothing else for me, Detective, I’ll be off. Catherine, give me a call if you want to talk further about my expanded role.”

  “I quit.” Ian didn’t bother to finish his beer before also getting to his feet. His face was flushed, his eyes narrow.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Desmond said. “You can’t quit. I don’t want you to quit. You are my Scrooge.”

  “Dave,” my mother said in the calm, placating voice she used when she was trying to rehearse, and my siblings and I were running wild through the house with a pack of our friends. Come to think of it, it was Dad who had the calm, placating voice. Mom simply sang louder. “You are far better suited to Marley than Scrooge. Marley has one of the best solos in the entire production. Next only to mine as Belle, of course,” she added modestly. Not.

  Dave hesitated. He glanced at Catherine. Ian snorted. “What, you can’t make up your own mind? You have to ask her for permission? Aline’s right. You’re Marley and I’m Scrooge. And that is that.”

  “We have one week until opening night,” Desmond said. “Aside from anything else, that’s not enough time for so much upheaval. An actor has to play the part they’re suited for. Isn’t that right, Aline? I’m sure there are parts you would have liked to have sung during your career, but you were wise enough to know they didn’t suit your voice.”