“Mark didn’t kill him,” I said.

  “I know that. You know that. Doesn’t mean the police know that.”

  “What are you saying, Alan?”

  “I’m saying Mark might find himself in some trouble,” Alan had replied. “Which means Vicky will need you, Merry. Which means you’ll need me. So I’ll be here.”

  I looked around the store now, making sure everything was in place. The front window display was of pictures of vast fields of tulips behind green and lilac table settings. A small rack held spring- or Easter-themed books for young children, and a stuffed rabbit sat at a child-sized picnic table, reading a book. We were, of course, primarily a Christmas-themed store in a Christmas-themed town, so a stuffed Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer kept the bunny company.

  We had no customers before ten, when Jackie came in to start her shift. I’d slept in late, and then Alan and I had taken the dogs for a short walk before enjoying a comfortable breakfast of bagels and cream cheese. We had not talked about “the case”, and I’d not heard from Vicky.

  While waiting for customers to beat down my doors, I checked the online news and social media to see if there were any updates. The police issued a statement about a “suspicious death” at a Rudolph residence but said nothing about precisely where that death had occurred. Which didn’t matter, as the neighbors had witnessed the screaming arrival of emergency vehicles, and they’d be eager to spread the word far and wide. A thought suddenly occurred to me. The tragic history of Cole House was sure to fan the flames of gossip. Two of Charles Cole’s daughters had died on the grounds; and the fiancé of the third, in the house. And now, all these years later, the same happened to Charles’s nephew.

  I couldn’t help the thought bubbling to the surface: Is Cole House cursed?

  Of course not, I scolded myself. No such thing as curses or hauntings or other such rubbish. Besides, Vicky and Mark were not members of the Cole family. So they’d be safe. Wouldn’t they?

  “There’s been a murder in Rudolph,” Jackie said brightly. “On Lakeside Drive. Isn’t that where Vicky and Mark bought that house? Kyle’s heading over there now, to try to get some pictures of the activity for the paper.” Kyle was Jackie’s boyfriend. He’d originally tried to make a living as an artist but had soon given that up as he had no training, no talent, and no ambition. He then set his sights on becoming a professional photographer, at which he also had no training, no talent, and even less ambition. He snapped the occasional picture he sold to the Rudolph Gazette if Russ Durham wasn’t available. In Kyle’s eyes, that made him a newspaper photographer. In Jackie’s eyes, it gave her bragging rights.

  In Russ Durham’s eyes, Kyle’s photographs were better than nothing. Which is what they’d get if Russ wasn’t available now that the paper no longer had a full-time staff photographer.

  “What do you know about it?” Jackie said. “Did you talk to Vicky today? What does she have to say? Did she see anything last night?”

  “I haven’t spoken to Vicky this morning,” I said in total honesty. “As it happens, I’m about to. I’m expecting a fairly quiet morning, so I’m going to pop over to the bakery. Want anything?”

  “Sure. If you’re paying, I’ll have an extra-large, double-sugar, caramel macchiato with plenty of whipped cream on top and one of those giant breakfast bars. The ones with the chocolate chips.”

  I left the store, cursing people who could eat whatever they wanted and never put on weight.

  At Victoria’s Bake Shoppe the breakfast crowd had left, and the lunch bunch were still to arrive. Only two tables were occupied, and one lone customer waited at the counter for his take-out coffee.

  “Morning,” I said to Marjorie, waitress and barista as well as Vicky’s aunt. “Is she in?”

  Marjorie jerked her head toward the back as she handed the customer his drink. Before I could take more than one step, she rounded the counter and intercepted me. She kept her voice low. “What’s happening Merry? I heard someone was found dead at Vicky’s place last night.”

  “Yeah, that happened. We don’t know anything yet. That is, I don’t know anything. Is Vicky okay?”

  “No, she is not. She pretends she is, but it’s easy enough to tell she’s upset about it. I suppose anyone would be at such a thing happening, but rumor is it’s Jim Cole. Nephew of Charles and Ethel.”

  I nodded. No point in denying it. The Rudolph grapevine was a highly efficient organization.

  “What was he doing there?” Marjorie asked.

  “I don’t know. No one seems to know.”

  “Strange family, that one. Comes from all those deaths happening in the house, I suppose. Although in the old days most people died at home. Children from diseases and accidents, the elderly in peace with their loved ones around them.” She sighed. “But the tragedies of the Cole family weren’t all that long ago. Charles and Ethel’s daughters died in … let me think. Must be the fifties, sixties maybe? Before my time, but my mother remembers them. I do remember when Emmeline’s fiancé died. Early 1980s that was. She’d brought him home to celebrate Christmas with her and then … Everyone was pretty upset about it. Plenty of people in town are remembering the tragic history of the Coles now that the house is going to be lived in again.”

  “Do any members of the Cole family still live around here?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. Jim doesn’t … didn’t, but his daughter lives in Rudolph. I can’t remember her name offhand. She’s married, so it’s not Cole any longer.”

  “Merry,” came a voice from the kitchen, “if you’re finished gossiping about me, I’m in here.”

  Marjorie and I exchanged guilty looks, and I went into the kitchen. Vicky’s assistant, Janelle, was chopping a mound of vegetables, her knife flashing. Two giant soup pots bubbled on the stove, and the scent of something very delicious wafted out of the oven. Cupcakes were cooling on a rack on the counter prior to being iced, and a tray held gingerbread cookies cut to resemble rabbits. Vicky’s gingerbread was a Rudolph tradition. Hearts for Valentine’s Day, bunnies for Easter, Santa in his bathing suit in the summer, ghosts for Hallowe’en, turkeys and cornucopias at Thanksgiving, and most important of all, reindeer, decorated trees, and various -sized ginger people for Christmas.

  “Everything okay?” I asked her.

  “Not really. Can you manage here for a few minutes if I take a break, Janelle?”

  “All under control.”

  “Give the soup a good stir every few minutes. When the oven timer beeps, check the cookies, and take them out if they’re done.”

  “You got it,” Janelle said.

  Vicky took off her apron and pulled off her hairnet. The lock of pink hair drooped over her right eye. She grabbed a sweater and, without a word, left the kitchen via the rear door. I followed and we stepped into the alley. It was a nice spring day. Brilliantly sunny with a decided nip in the air and a strong, cool wind blowing. We stood together on the back step. A well-maintained brick walkway ran alongside the bakery, between it and the police station and town hall. Come May, beds of colorful annuals would be planted to give the path a touch of welcome cheer.

  I wrapped my arms around myself against the chill wind and said nothing. Vicky looked across the parking lot toward the police station. “Mark’s been hauled in for questioning,” she said at last.

  With relief I noticed she said questioning, not arrested. “That’s natural enough, isn’t it? He did find a body. The police will have uncovered further evidence during their search of the site and have more questions.”

  “I suppose so. I don’t like it.”

  “Of course you don’t. Did he say anything more last night after we dropped you off?”

  “No. He didn’t want to talk about it. He was pretty angry, but he tried to keep it to himself.”

  “That rarely works out well.”

  “Don’t I know it. He was mad at Jim Cole for threatening us, for trying to scare us, for creeping around our house. And then later, he was mad at Jim Cole for dying and making it our problem. I hope he can control that anger in front of Diane Simmonds.”

  “Does he have a temper?” I asked. “Mark?”

  “Not really. Probably less of a temper than a lot of chefs, which is why he gets on well with his staff. Buying the house has been stressful. Stressful for us both, but him in particular. Plenty of people told him he was nuts to buy Cole House.”

  I said nothing, and Vicky turned and grinned at me. “People like you.”

  “I never said—”

  “I know you didn’t. But you thought it, right?”

  “Getting it into a reasonable sort of shape is going to be a heck of a big job.”

  “Mark loves old houses. Big rooms, fireplaces, high ceilings, ornate plasterwork. He’s always wanted a grand old house on a big property with a lawn and lots of trees, room for a huge kitchen garden. Seems kind of odd for a kid from Manhattan who grew up in an apartment, but maybe that’s it. He dreamt of having the space, the freedom to roam on his own land. The only way anyone can afford a house like that is to be rich or to buy one that’s going cheap because it’s falling down.”

  “And you’re okay with that?” I asked. Her love for Mark clearly meant his dream had become her dream, but that sometimes has a way of not lasting, not once the reality of the situation settles in.

  “Sure,” she said with an excess of enthusiasm that rang slightly false to me. “My family’s been in Rudolph as long as your dad’s has. I’m excited about owning a part of Rudolph history. The house itself, I mean. Memories of the great place Rudolph had once been and is again, not the tragic story of one family. We’ll fix it up, and then if we decide the house is too big for us and the yard too much to maintain, we’ll be able to sell it for a good profit.”

  “Practical of you,” I said.

  “Yeah. But first, we have to get rid of this cloud hanging over our heads so we can get on with our lives. We might have to postpone the wedding.”

  “Don’t be too hasty. The police might be able to wrap this one up quickly.”

  “I hope. That looks like him now. Yes, it’s Mark.”

  Vicky pointed, and I followed the direction of her finger. Mark Grosse had come out of the police station. He stood at the top of the steps, facing back into the building. He waved his arms in the air, shouted something we didn’t catch, and then turned and stomped down the steps. His body was stiff with tension and anger, his face as dark as a thundercloud.

  I looked past him to see Detective Diane Simmonds standing in the doorway, watching him walk across the parking lot toward his car. Her face showed no expression, but I didn’t care for the way she kept her eyes focused on Mark.

  He looked toward us suddenly and saw us watching. His face cracked into a smile so forced it did nothing to make me feel any better. He lifted one hand in a delusory cheerful wave and used the other to press the button on his car fob. He got in and drove away. He did not look at Vicky as he passed us.

  “I have the feeling that didn’t go all that well,” Vicky said.

  “He didn’t look happy,” I agreed.

  “He’ll be heading back to the hotel. I’ll give him time to get there and then give him a call.”

  “Simmonds is leaving the station,” I said to Vicky. “I wonder where she’s going. New evidence has come in maybe. Oops, she’s not heading for a car. She’s coming this way.”

  Indeed she was. She headed directly toward us. She must have been up most of the night, if not all night, but she looked fresh and bouncy this morning. Her green eyes were clear, her red curls neatly gathered at the back of her head. She’d changed into loose-fitting gray pants with a matching jacket over a light green blouse. Tiny gold hoops were in her ears.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “I hope you’ve come to tell us an arrest has been made in the murder of Jim Cole,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t do that. I was about to give you a call, Vicky, when I saw you here. I need you to come in and have a chat about events of last night.”

  “I told you what happened,” Vicky said.

  “Yes, you did. Last night. Details are often remembered later, and things initially considered unimportant are reconsidered.”

  “When can I go back to my house?”

  “Possibly this evening, although you’ll have to stay away from that portion of the yard for a while still. I’ll let you know. Shall we go?”

  “I have work to do,” Vicky said. “It’ll be lunchtime soon, and my assistant can’t manage on her own.”

  “You close at three, correct?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Come and see me then. In the meantime, Merry, I’ll get your statement.”

  “I have my own business to run,” I said.

  “You managed to find the time to come here, to have a chat with Vicky. Therefore, you can chat with me.”

  I glanced at Vicky. The corners of her mouth turned up, but she said nothing.

  “Might as well get it over with,” I said.

  Chapter Eleven

  I had nothing new to tell Diane Simmonds, and she had little to tell me. We went to an interview room in the police station, and she asked someone to bring me a glass of water. I was pleased she took me to the nice interview room, the one with a comfortable couch, complete with cushions, a low coffee table to rest the water glass on, and a picture of the park at dusk on the wall. Not the not-nice interview room, which was all about intimidating suspected criminals.

  She asked me to once again go over everything that happened last night, and to tell her more about when Vicky and I encountered Jim Cole on the street. She had questions about Mark I didn’t care for. Such as how angry he’d been when he went outside to search the property and his state of mind when we found him next to Jim Cole’s body.

  “Annoyed, not really angry,” I said. “And upset, as anyone would be.”

  “In our search we found clear signs of someone seeking ingress to the house,” she said. “Scratching around the kitchen and back doors mostly. Some clumsy attempts had been made to pry plywood off the downstairs windows.”

  “Was that from last night?”

  “Recent. Meaning at least since the winter, but impossible to determine precisely when it happened.”

  So Vicky and Mark hadn’t been imagining things. Not that I’d thought they were. I didn’t know about Mark, but Vicky most definitely didn’t do “imagining.”

  “Have any other people in that neighborhood reported disturbances?” I asked.

  “No. But I have to point out that Vicky and Mark didn’t report any either. It’s far too easy to dismiss sounds in the night, particularly in a heavily treed area. Deer and other animals cross those lots to access the lake in the evenings. We found something else that might prove to be of interest. Jim Cole’s phone was in his pocket. On it were pictures of the house—Mark and Vicky’s house. Taken at night, and showing the house and the property not in its best light.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Pictures of graffiti on the boards over the back windows. The broken lamps at the front gate. Weeds and overgrown statues. The dead rose bushes. Close-ups of paint stripping off the window frames.”

  “Any pictures taken from inside the house?”

  “Not that I saw. But I haven’t looked at them all. Not yet.”

  “When were these pictures taken?”

  “The phone’s been sent to the techies for analysis. I want to know if he’s been on the property other times than last night.” She stood up and said, “Thank you, Merry. I’ll show you out.”

  Detective Simmonds walked me to the lobby. She held the inner door open for me. As I passed through, heading for freedom, she said, “I’m asking you to keep yourself out of this, Merry. Scratch that. I’m ordering you to keep yourself out of this.”

  “Isn’t it too late?” I said. “I’m obviously involved, or you wouldn’t have had me in for a pleasant chat.”

  “You know what I mean. No involving yourself in my investigation.”

  I said nothing. I’ve always liked Diane Simmonds. I believe she likes me. I’ve been introduced to her daughter and her mother. She and Charlotte, her daughter, have shopped for gifts in my store. My dog literally worships her. I’ve been of help to her in past cases, although she rarely admitted it. And even more rarely thanked me for it, even when I’ve put myself in danger. I liked her, but I was well aware she was a cop first and foremost. No vague concept of friendship would be allowed to come between her and her primary goal of bringing the killer of Jim Cole to justice. She knew how close Vicky and I are, and because of that, how close I am to Mark. She was warning me off doing what I could to help Mark.

  And that had me worried.

  I considered returning to the bakery to tell Vicky what had been said, but I decided not to. First, I had to sort out my thoughts. Obviously the police have a lot of different angles to pursue regarding cases like this, and Diane Simmonds has never been one to tell me anything she didn’t think I needed to know. If she had a strong suspect other than Mark, she wouldn’t be likely to tell me.

  Simmonds had ordered me not to get involved. She didn’t have the power to do any such thing. She might as well order the populace of Rudolph not to eat gingerbread over the holiday season, or not to gossip.

  When I walked into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, Jackie was ringing up a set of holly-trimmed serving dishes for a customer, and two women were admiring the North Pole Village display. The latter had been handcrafted out of wood by Alan himself. A full Santa’s village with a house for the big guy himself and Mrs. Claus, toy-making sheds, elves’ accommodations, barns for the reindeer, a garage for Santa’s sled—even trains and tracks to run between the buildings. The full set was large, and it was expensive, but it was specifically designed so pieces could be purchased individually and then added on over the years as further gifts or to hand the toy on to a younger child. They’d proven to be hugely popular.

  “It seems early to be buying holiday gifts,” one of the customers said to the other.