Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen Page 2

  “But Santa is supposed to be last,” I wailed. “Santa is always last.”

  “Merry, what is the holdup?” My mother appeared. “The children are getting restless. As am I. It is no good for my voice to be out in this cold for overly long, you know.” She waved her hands. Her leather gloves were a perfect match to her gown. Mom had flatly refused to be an elf (“hideous little creatures,” she’d declared) and instead spent what was probably a mind-boggling amount of money to have a New York seamstress who sewed costumes for Broadway create a gown that wouldn’t have been out of place in the ball scene of Pride and Prejudice. I’d been furious, thinking she wanted to upstage a bunch of kids. Today, I had to admit (as I usually did) that she’d been right (as she usually was). Rather than putting herself above the rest of our ensemble, her gown, in reverse colors—forest green with turquoise accents—tied the group together into a very impressive whole.

  “You folks need to get that out of the way.” Officer Candice Campbell of the Rudolph police—the one person I didn’t need right now—arrived on the scene. “It’s blocking traffic.”

  “Gee, I hadn’t noticed,” I said. “Candy.” Her mouth twisted. Candy was what she’d been called in high school. Now that she was an officer of the law, she really hated that name. Which is why I said it. We didn’t get on any better as adults than we had in grade nine.

  “It’s all in hand, Officer,” Russ said with a smile.

  The hard cop-like demeanor Candy tried so hard to project melted a fraction. Then she remembered who she was. And that I was watching. “I hope so. Otherwise, I’ll l have to issue you a ticket, Merry. Blocking traffic. That’s for starters.”

  I ground my teeth.

  The quilt guild float passed us. The women wore identical green and red earmuffs and were pretending to sew—despite their heavy mittens—the cloth spread out on their laps. “Problems, Aline?” a woman called, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Perhaps we’ll see you at the finish line.” Her fellow quilters laughed.

  Mom ignored them. Perhaps only I could tell that inside she was seething. Mother hated to be shown up in anything, whether upstaged at the Met or falling out of order in the Santa Claus parade.

  Groups of anxious parents had followed Mom and were milling about. I told them a replacement vehicle was coming and suggested Mom use the opportunity to warm the children’s voices—and the children—up.

  She went back to the float. Jackie hauled her up. Not quite the sort of arrival on stage Mom was used to, but she didn’t miss a beat. “Children, we will begin with ‘Jingle Bells.’” She gave the note.

  These kids were taking singing lessons, and some of them were showing considerable talent. The perfect notes rose into the cold crisp air to land on gently falling snowflakes.

  Listening to them, I almost forgot how upset I was.

  Everyone loved being in the parade, but getting ready and assembled in all the chaos was extremely stressful. Children, not to mention their mothers, could be brought to tears, and more than one fistfight usually threatened to break out. Over the years, I’d heard hundreds of people swear never to do it again. A month later they’d be back, signing up for the parade once again.

  As the pure young voices rang out, I could see people visibly relaxing. Grins appeared on ruddy faces, and folks gave their neighbors warm smiles and exchanged handshakes.

  The Christmas magic was back.

  I remembered that I was supposed to be angry when the penultimate float passed us. If I had any competition for best of parade, this was it. Vicky Casey, my closest friend since babyhood, might be the person I loved most on earth after my parents, but when it came to the parade, she was my bitterest enemy. Vicky owned Victoria’s Bake Shoppe. As well as the usual delights to be found in a small-town bakery, Vicky specialized in gingerbread. Gingerbread cakes, gingerbread bread, gingerbread cookies. Even gingerbread hot chocolate mix, and her special ginger tonic that, added to a glass of whiskey, was guaranteed to warm the cockles of your heart on a cold winter’s night (whatever cockles might be). Last year she’d won best of parade with the elves’ Christmas Day feast. This year her float was done up like an old-fashioned bakery, with cardboard boxes painted and arranged to resemble an open hearth, a wood-fired oven, and a table covered in rolling pins, pie plates, and cookie cutters. Shelves held breads, pies, and cakes so realistic she’d caught one of her nephews trying to steal a fake cookie. The people posing as bakery workers, gathered from the ranks of her vast extended family, were dressed in long skirts and aprons for the girls, and striped gray pants and high white hats for the boys.

  Vicky tossed me a worried look as her float passed. “Okay?” she mouthed.

  “Engine problems,” I mouthed back.

  Realizing that neither I nor anyone with me was in life-threatening danger, she pumped her fist in a triumphant gesture and sailed on by. I really hated that smirk. Almost as much as I hated the glare Santa Claus, aka Dad, threw at me as his high golden sleigh, pulled by nine giant stuffed reindeer mounted on a tractor almost as old as George’s, passed.

  In any other parade Santa might be the star of the show, but in our town that role went to Fergus Cartwright, the mayor. Looking somewhat like a polar bear losing his fur, His Honor was wrapped in a thick white blanket, with a bushy white faux-fur hat plopped on his hairless head and white mittens on his hands. The mayor sat on the golden thronelike chair at the back of the sleigh, waving regally, while Santa stood in front yelling “Ho, ho, ho.” Members of the town’s fire department, dressed in their firefighting gear and Santa hats, walked on either side of the sleigh, handing candy canes to laughing, clapping children.

  At last, George’s behemoth of a truck came into sight. Russ ran to meet him, and he and George quickly attached the truck to the front of the tractor. We had no way of moving the tractor aside while the parade was assembling and didn’t want to waste precious minutes to do it now.

  I ran back to my float.

  “You can’t start now,” Candy said, trotting beside me. “Santa has to be last.”

  “Is that an official bylaw?”

  “If it isn’t it should be.”

  “Arrest me then,” I said. I climbed onto my float.

  “Can we go now, Merry?” An adorable little girl peeked out from under the brim of her overlarge hat.

  “Yes. Let’s go!”

  George clambered into the cab of his truck, and Russ leapt up after me as, accompanied by the cheers of the singers and their anxious parents, we jerked into motion. Officer Candy looked as though she were mentally searching the legal books, trying to find something—anything—to charge me with.

  “Rudolph!” Mother called out. She sounded the note, and the choir began to sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

  “You can’t come with us,” I said to Russ. “You’re not in costume.”

  “The way I look at it, Mrs. Claus, you made me miss taking shots of the start of the parade, so you owe me a lift. Just think of me as the official photographer of Santa’s workshop.” He lifted his camera and snapped a close-up of my scowling face.

  Chapter 2

  For the crime of falling out of order and thus disrupting the smooth running of the event, my float was disqualified from best in parade.

  That the head of the judging committee this year was Vicky’s uncle Doug had nothing at all, he assured me, to do with his decision. Then he buried his face in his chest and hurried away.

  I didn’t even have time to get mad again. I left Mom and the parents to get the kids off the float and calm them down. Russ and his camera had jumped off somewhere along the parade route. George would haul the float to Mom and Dad’s place where it would spend the next six months in the carriage house.

  Jackie and I had to make our way to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures posthaste and get everything ready to open the shop for the crowds of eager shoppers who would,
the plan went, soon pour through the doors.

  But first I had to run to my own home and let Matterhorn, my dog, out for a stretch. I lifted my long skirts and galloped through town as fast as I dared on the fresh snow. I cut through the park and rounded the bandstand. Not a person was in sight. Everyone was either still at the parade route, sipping hot chocolate and nibbling cookies, or getting their own businesses ready. To my left, the bay off Lake Ontario was a soft blur of white on white. To my right the shops and houses were all beautifully decorated for the season. I had no time to admire my surroundings. I’d been planning to let the dog pee in his crate today, but a horrified Vicky had told me that we were at a very delicate stage of housebreaking, and to do so might set us back months. Why she used the royal “we” when she was neither the one peeing nor the one rushing home to attend to that, I didn’t know. I didn’t quite know how I’d ended up with a dog, and a Saint Bernard puppy at that.

  Matterhorn, or Mattie as I usually called him, knocked me flying as I opened the door to his crate. He then proceeded to stand over me and threaten to lick me to death. I sputtered, wiped a copious amount of drool off my face, and staggered to my feet. My apartment is one half of the second floor of a gorgeous nineteenth-century Victorian, accessible from the narrow servants’ staircase that opens onto the backyard. Knowing what was next, Mattie bolted down the stairs and waited for me to catch up. I opened the back door. He still wasn’t quite sure about this snow stuff, and stood on the threshold for a moment, sniffing the air. I gave his rear end a slight push with the toe of my boot and out he went.

  He did his business, and then, apparently deciding that this snow stuff was okay after all, cavorted about the yard, leaping at flakes, trying to catch them in his mouth. I watched him play, feeling a smile on my face. Next year I might do my float as a Swiss watchmaker’s workshop on Christmas Eve. The kids would love Mattie. He could wear a barrel tied under his chin. He threatened to be big enough by then for the kids to sit on.

  I snapped myself back to this year. “Come on, boy. Time to come in. Mattie, come here. Mattie!”

  He was showing no inclination of giving up his fun to be stuffed back into his crate. Not only had I found myself with a new dog, but over the Christmas season, my busiest time of the year. Cursing my lack of foresight, I stomped into the yard and dragged the resisting thirty-pound, ten-week-old puppy back into the house.

  I then ran all the way to the shop. We were ready to open with five minutes to spare.

  Jackie refused to wear the elf costume any longer and had changed into the clothes she’d brought to work. I planned to keep playing Mrs. Claus, hoping it would charm the customers. My tights and the bottom foot of my skirt were soaking wet. The snow that had gathered when I chased the dog around the yard was melting in the warmth of the shop.

  Ignoring the chill running up my legs, I ran a critical eye over the display areas, pleased with what I saw. As can be assumed by the name of my business, I specialize in Christmas decorations. My stuff tended to be one-of-a-kind items made by local artists or crafters, or occasionally brought in from my sources in New York City. I’d spent five years as a deputy style editor with a well-known lifestyle magazine. Locating items that were unique, beautiful, and yet affordable to the average buyer was what I did best.

  I peered through the shop windows. In keeping with the theme of my float, I’d created a display to resemble the elves’ jewelry work area. A local jeweler had lent me some of her older or seldom-used tools and I’d scrounged an old-fashioned wooden school desk and a few kerosene lamps for props. Some of the most eye-catching pieces of jewelry were laid out on black velvet cloth next to a cluster of sparking glass Christmas trees, while a brightly painted wooden Santa inspected them through his spectacles. A couple, her wrapped in fur, him in a calf-length black leather coat and gloves, stopped to inspect the display. I saw her pointing at a glittering rhinestone brooch in the shape of a wreath.

  I flipped the sign to “Open” and unlocked the door. The couple came into the shop. “Let us know if you need any help,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your first time to Rudolph?”

  “Yes, and it won’t be our last, will it, honey? That parade this morning has got to be one of the best I’ve ever seen. Nothing like a good old-fashioned parade to get the holiday spirit flowing.”

  I grinned at him. A man after my own heart. I left them to browse.

  Jackie came out of the back, dressed in black ankle boots, black tights, a short black skirt, and snug blue sweater. I noticed the man give her a quick once-over. I didn’t employ Jackie because she attracted male customers, but it was a bonus.

  I adjusted my fake spectacles and settled the mobcap and white hair into a better place on my head.

  The bell over the door tinkled and customers began to flood in. I assigned Jackie to staff the till, while I wandered the shop floor, answering questions and helping people choose gifts or decorations.

  About an hour after opening a man came in. He was alone, but that wasn’t unusual. Plenty of women nudged their husbands in the direction of my shop while they went to Diva Accessories next door. He carried a camera and a notebook; that was unusual.

  Betty Thatcher, owner of Rudolph’s Gift Nook, the shop on the other side of me, burst in, hot on his heels. The Nook sold mass-produced Christmas decorations, most of them made in China. Nothing wrong with that. We shouldn’t have been in competition, but as far as Betty was concerned, every hundred dollars spent on an ornament at my shop could have been used to purchase a truckload of discount decorations at hers. Betty hadn’t had a float in the parade—she never did—but I’d seen her there, lurking in the crowd and smirking at my misfortune.

  “Mr. Pearce!” she cried, “I totally forgot to tell you about my idea for expanding the store.”

  The newcomer gave her a strained smile. “I have all I want, thank you,” he said in a strong English accent. He was probably in his late forties, short and lightly built, with a bad comb-over and a pale complexion that retained the memory of teenage acne. He approached me, while Betty, tiny but formidable, plucked at his sleeve. “Why don’t we go for a coffee? Or I suppose you’d prefer tea.” She snorted out a laugh. “My treat. You have to see the Cranberry Coffee Bar. It’s one of our most popular spots.”

  “Thank you,” he repeated. “I have the coffee shop on my list.”

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “No,” said Betty. “Maybe after tea. Come along, Mr. Pearce.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Thatcher. I have all I need from you.”

  Even Betty couldn’t fail to notice that she’d been dismissed. She threw me a glare that said it was all my fault this Mr. Pearce didn’t want to have tea with her.

  “I have a few free minutes right now,” she said, defiant in the face of defeat. “I expect to be soooo busy for the rest of the afternoon. The crowds just never let up at Rudolph’s Gift Nook. You are soooo lucky, Merry, not to have that problem.” Pleased with her parting shot, she left.

  I still didn’t know who this man was. His coat was wool, his scarf cashmere, his gloves leather, his camera a Nikon. “Nigel Pearce,” he said. “I’m with World Journey magazine, here to do a feature on your town and its Christmas spirit.”

  “Welcome,” I croaked. “I mean, welcome to Rudolph and to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures.” World Journey was one of the top travel magazines in Europe.

  “I saw you at the parade,” he said. “Late, were you?”

  “Mechanical problems.”

  “Are you the proprietor?”

  “Yes.” I held out my hand. “Merry Wilkinson.” I spelled my name, as I always have to, otherwise people think it’s Mary.

  He touched my fingers with the tips of his leather gloves. He wasn’t exactly warm and friendly, but if Nigel Pearce wanted to write about my shop for World Journey magazine, he could
be as cold as he wanted to be.

  “Pretty town. The Christmas stuff is a mite over-the-top for my taste, but they say some people like all this holiday kitsch. We’re going to title the article ‘America’s Christmas Town.’”

  “How nice,” I said, ignoring the fact that he’d called my beautiful artisanal goods holiday kitsch. I did not leap into the air and high-five Jackie, although I wanted to. My father and the burgomasters and burgomistresses of Rudolph would be beyond delighted. They’d been trying for a long time to have our town known as America’s Christmas Town, but we had stiff competition from the likes of Santa Claus, Indiana; Christmas, Florida; North Pole, Alaska; and Snowflake, Arizona. If World Journey gave us the label, it would pretty much be official. I could imagine my dad saying, “Take that, Snowflake!”

  “Nice shop.” Nigel lifted his camera and began taking pictures. He should have asked permission first, but I was hardly going to slap him down for being rude, now was I?

  “Nice staff.” He focused on Jackie. She tossed her hair, tilted her chin, stuck out her chest, and beamed.

  “Why don’t you come out from behind the counter and show us some of these pretty things, love?”

  Jackie threw me a questioning glance.

  “Your boss won’t mind,” Nigel said. “I’ll get some shots of her looking . . . Christmassy.”

  There wasn’t much to do right now anyway. The customers had stopped browsing and were watching Nigel click away. A few stepped politely out of the way; several stepped forward, trying to “inadvertently” get themselves in the frame.

  He took pictures of Jackie standing beside the gaily decorated live Douglas fir (replaced every month), Jackie showing a customer a display of quilted place mats, Jackie helping a man choose a gift for his wife, Jackie posing among our collection of three-foot-tall stuffed Santas, Jackie being Jackie, pretty and flirtatious.

  He took one picture of me ringing up a sale. He told me not to smile—it made me look too young to be Mrs. Claus.