We Wish You a Murderous Christmas Read online

  “I don’t know, dear. Jack was very much involved in the day-to-day operation of the place. He’s the manager, as well as the owner. Grace has told me many times that the hotel’s getting to be too much for him. The constant stress of demanding guests, the endless hours involved in running a hotel, the worry.”

  “Worry? Is the inn not doing okay?”

  “I believe it’s doing very well,” she said, “but when one owns one’s own business there’s no getting away from it.”

  “That’s certainly true,” I said, “as I’ve found out.” I’ve owned Mrs. Claus’s Treasures for only a couple of months, so this was my first holiday season. I specialized in locally sourced artisan crafts, but I occasionally bought pieces from farther away if they appealed to me. I trust my taste and buy only what I love and what I think others will love. I select everything I sell with great care and arrange it as I want. I love having this store. I love being my own boss and doing everything my way. It’s a big responsibility, but I’m hugely proud of it. It’s also a heck of a lot of work. “How’s Grace going to manage? It would be hard enough anytime, but we’re heading into the busiest weeks of the year.”

  “She called her stepson last night. The boy’s from Jack’s first marriage. He lives in California but said he’d be right out and will be able to stay as long as he’s needed.”

  “I might know him. What’s his name?”

  “Gordon.”

  “Right, Gord Olsen. He was in school with me. He left when his parents divorced and he moved with his mom to California. I remember him bragging about all the surfing he was going to do and all the movie stars he was going to meet.” I also remembered how glad we all were to see the back of him. Gord Olsen had been a horrid boy. The worst sort of bully, who’d lie to a teacher’s face and say it wasn’t him, and then turn around and steal lunch money from a little kid. But all that was a long time ago, and I was sure he’d changed. “That’s good to hear. If Jack doesn’t have to worry about the inn he can concentrate on getting better.”

  “I’m driving Grace to Syracuse later to pick them up.”

  “Them?”

  “I believe Gord’s bringing his wife.”

  “Don’t they have jobs or something?”

  Mom shrugged her well-draped shoulders. Regular employment was not a concept she was familiar with. “Why don’t you come to the inn around seven this evening to meet them? They’ll need to get settled in and will want to meet the local businesspeople.”

  “I’ll call Jackie and ask her to work tonight until closing. If she can, I’ll come.”

  “Good.” My mother left with a wave of leather-clad fingers.

  The moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, Betty Thatcher, the owner of Rudolph’s Gift Nook, the shop next to mine, pounced on her. Betty seemed to spend most of her day watching (and disapproving of) the goings-on at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. Assuming that news of Jack Olsen’s heart attack had spread and Betty was on the hunt for gossip, I went back to work.

  I phoned my regular shop assistant Jackie O’Reilly to ask if she’d mind doing a shift this evening. As I expected, she jumped at the chance to earn extra money. At one thirty I switched the sign over the door to “Closed” and trotted up the street to grab something for lunch. I’d been planning on teasing Vicky on the way home last night about the new man in town, Chef Mark Grosse. But with what had happened to Jack, never mind our cabbie’s monologue about all the people in his family who’d been struck down with heart attacks, the mood for teasing had been extinguished as thoroughly as the lights in the hotel’s Christmas village windows.

  Now, I thought, heading for Victoria’s Bake Shoppe, might be a good time.

  I ran up the steps and opened the door. The delicious scents of freshly baked bread, warm pastry, ginger, and cinnamon washed over me. I took a deep breath. Heaven, I sometimes thought, must smell like Vicky’s bakery. The lunch rush was dying down and the waitress was wiping down tables and clearing used dishes. “Hi, Merry,” she said as I came in. “You here for lunch? There’s not a whole lot left.”

  “Soup?” I peeled off my gloves and shrugged out of my coat.

  “Only split pea. I can make you a croissant sandwich with ham and cheese to go with it.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. I took a seat while I tried not to look at the shelf above the counter. There, proudly displayed, sat not one but two giant trophies awarded for the Rudolph Santa Claus parade best float. There are two awards because we have a parade in midsummer as well as the main event the first Saturday of December: the town of Rudolph is promoted as the place for year-round Christmas celebrations. One of those trophies should have been mine. If my float hadn’t been sabotaged by an individual out to destroy Christmas in Rudolph, it would have been. I was still bitter about that.

  “I thought I recognized that voice.” Vicky came out of the back, wiping floury hands on her long apron.

  “Second thought, Marjorie,” I raised my voice, “I’d prefer a baguette, if you still have any.”

  “All gone.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I hope you had enough for the Yuletide Inn.”

  “If you must know,” Vicky said, “I made the delivery myself this morning.”

  “How nice of you to make a personal trip and not send one of your lackeys. Was the head chef around, by any chance?” I wiggled my eyebrows.

  “And isn’t he a dream?” Marjorie, who’s Vicky’s aunt, put a steaming bowl of soup in front of me.

  “As it happens,” Vicky said as her face turned bright red, “he was. A top chef always wants to be on hand to inspect the goods when they’re delivered.”

  “And much inspecting was done, I am sure.”

  Vicky looked as though she was thinking of making a sharp retort. Instead she burst out laughing. “Oh, all right. You win. Yes, I like him, and yes, I think he likes me. And don’t you dare tell my mom that, Aunt Marjorie.”

  “I never gossip about what happens in the bakery.”

  Vicky rolled her eyes. She dropped into the vacant chair at my table. “Although, about the last person I’d want to get involved with is a chef. They have absolutely killer hours.” She pushed the single long lock of purple hair out of her eyes. The rest of her hair was its natural black, cut almost to the scalp. She always applied dramatic black makeup around her cornflower blue eyes, a tattoo of a gingerbread man cookie decorated her right wrist, and I knew she had numerous tattoos that were kept discreetly covered when she was at work. She had a heart-shaped face, and her smile was as mischievous as the youngest and naughtiest of Santa’s elves. At five foot eleven and rail thin she had the body of a supermodel, rather than that of a woman who cooked delicious baked goods all day. I, on the other hand, barely reach five foot five and do not have the body of a supermodel.

  “You keep the worst hours of anyone I know,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be a good fit?”

  “A restaurant is the exact opposite to a bakery. I get up in the middle of the night to make bread, and we close midafternoon. He starts midmorning and sometimes goes until after midnight.”

  “You’ll work it out,” I said.

  “You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Merry. We haven’t so much as had a cup of coffee together yet.”

  “Yes, you did,” Marjorie called from behind the counter. “Before Thanksgiving.”

  “That was business. He came in to talk about placing a regular order. Don’t you have work to do, Aunt Marjorie?”

  “I can clean and talk at the same time.”

  “Judging by the way he was looking at you last night,” I said, “you have nothing to worry about. Why, I bet as soon as the New Year’s here and the holiday rush dies down, he’ll be calling.”

  Her face brightened. “You think?”

  “Totally. Then again, this is the twenty-first century, you know. You can call him.”


  “Yes!” Aunt Marjorie shouted.

  I finished my lunch, nobly passing on a triple chocolate brownie that was one of the few desserts remaining, and headed home for my regular midday chore.

  Somehow, without my quite knowing what was happening, a Saint Bernard puppy had wiggled his way into my life. And, I must add, into my heart. His name is Matterhorn, he’s usually called Mattie, and he’s just over three months old. One of Vicky’s vast array of cousins breeds the friendly giants. Mattie’s mother, a kennel show regular, managed to get herself “knocked up” by a dog without papers. To hear Vicky’s family talk, it wouldn’t have been any more scandalous if one of the Queen’s grandchildren had run off with a punk rocker. As none of the kennel’s customers wanted Mattie or his brothers and sisters, Vicky set about finding good homes for the puppies.

  Against my better judgment, I said I’d consider it. I was taken to the kennels, and after one look at those giant eyes the color of melting caramel and one lick from his big pink tongue, I fell in love. Home with me he came.

  The timing couldn’t have been worse. It was the busiest time of year at the store, and because he was a hyperactive puppy and still basically untrained, he had to be left in his crate when I wasn’t home. Which meant I had to keep popping out of the shop and running home to let him out to do his business. And then, at the end of a long day when I’d been on my feet for twelve hours or more, he needed a nice long walk.

  Mattie greeted me with his usual unbridled enthusiasm and then bounded through the deep snow in the backyard for a while. I hadn’t had much time to train him (although we were signed up for lessons beginning the week after New Year) but he was intelligent and eager to please, and I could usually get him back in the crate without too much pushing and shoving. He was going to be one mighty big animal.

  Speaking of leaps, Betty Thatcher jumped out of the Nook when she heard me arrive at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures after seeing to Mattie. Her store, Rudolph’s Gift Nook, sells cheap, mass-produced Christmas stuff. I have no problem with that; we are not in competition. Betty, however, seems to think if I’d close up shop and slink into the night, my customers would be beating down her doors. “There you are!” she shouted. “If you want to run a business you can’t be taking time off in the middle of the day, you know.”

  “I was out for lunch.”

  “That’s no excuse. I never take a lunch break. I bring a sandwich from home. So should you.”

  “Yes, Betty.”

  “I’m not your social secretary, you know.”

  “Yes, Betty.”

  “People have been coming into the Nook for the past hour, wondering when you’ll be open.”

  I glanced at the door. A paper clock hung there. It said “Back at:” and its hands pointed to two thirty. I glanced at my watch. Two twenty-nine.

  “Where’s Jackie?” Betty asked.

  “She’ll be around later,” I said.

  Betty harrumphed. “I’ve never liked that girl, you know. Too busy flirting with the male customers, in my opinion. Their wives don’t like that.”

  “Thank you for the advice.” I unlocked my shop door.

  But Betty wasn’t finished yet. “If you need dependable help, my Clark’s looking for work.”

  Clark was Betty’s son. He was always looking for work because he had an attitude problem—not that either he or Betty saw it that way—and couldn’t hold down a job. I’d heard that he’d been hired at the Yuletide but that hadn’t ended well, although I didn’t know the details. These days he helped out at the Nook sometimes, but Betty never seemed to take a minute off.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  “You do that.” She went into her shop, and I went into mine.

  Traffic picked up over the rest of the afternoon, and it turned into a good day. Jackie arrived at six, and I went home to feed Mattie and take him for a walk before driving myself to the Yuletide Inn.

  It was full dark when I pulled into the inn’s long, curving driveway. The hotel was trimmed with white fairy lights, and colored bulbs had been strung between the trees lining the paths that meandered through the spacious gardens. In the summer the gorgeous grounds of the inn are one of Rudolph’s prime tourist attractions. Even in the winter it’s a lovely place for a stroll, to admire the sculptural naked branches of the oaks and maples, the snow-laden needles of pines and spruce. A man-made pond marks the heart of the gardens, and in the winter the hotel staff keep it clear for skating. As I walked up the stairs a family fell into step behind me. Mom, Dad, and two laughing kids, warmly dressed and pink cheeked from enjoying a walk in the fresh winter air.

  “Merry Wilkinson, as beautiful as ever!” A loud voice greeted me as I came into the lobby. I was enveloped in a giant bear hug. “It’s so great to see you.” The man pulled back. Gord Olsen had put on a lot of weight since our school days. It didn’t look good on his five-foot-six frame. His eyes were small and almost black, his lips thin, and his fair hair receding at a rapid pace. He must look like his mother, because the only trace of Jack I could see in him was the square jaw.

  “Nice to see you, too, Gord,” I said. “Any news about your dad?”

  “‘Stable’ is the official word. I guess that’s the best we can hope for at this time. Come over here, honey. Here’s someone I’d like you to meet. Merry and I were in school together. Merry, this lovely lady is Irene, my wife.”

  I shook hands with Irene Olsen. She was taller than her husband, and, in boots with sky-high stiletto heels, not trying to hide it. She was about his age, meaning the same age as me, thirtyish. She looked stereotypically California: long blond locks, blindingly white teeth, a deep tan. She was slightly overweight, but who am I (an eager patron of Victoria’s Bake Shoppe) to judge? She took my hand in limp fingers, and her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “So pleased to meet you,” she said, almost yawning.

  I turned to Grace and gave her a hug. “You okay?”

  “I’m as fine as can be expected. Noel and Aline have been a tower of strength.”

  I smiled at my parents.

  “Now that we’re all here, shall we go through?” Grace said.

  At that moment I realized everyone else was dressed for dinner. Mom wore a tailored trouser suit, Grace was in a woolen sheath that showed off her slim figure, Gord in suit and tie, my dad in another one of his hideous (meaning absolutely perfect) Christmas sweaters, and Irene in a knee-length blue dress with gold jewelry.

  I’d changed out of my work clothes to walk Mattie and had pulled on a pair of old jeans, a black T-shirt under a slightly ratty sweater, and heavy winter boots that were perfect for walking a dog in the snowy park. “I didn’t know we were having dinner,” I mumbled. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Mom said.

  We were escorted into a small private alcove off the dining room. The lighting was soft and the Christmas decorations subdued. The moment we sat down, Gord ordered a couple of bottles of wine for the table. He opened his menu and studied it intently. “Prices are mighty steep, Grace.”

  “We have an excellent chef. He came here from the city, with the best of credentials. He gets as many of his ingredients locally as he can. Even at this time of year farms around Rudolph can supply much of what we need. The lamb, for example, is from a farm not more than half an hour’s drive from here.”

  “It’s really good, too,” I said. “I had it last night.”

  “That’s all well and good.” Gord ignored me. “But the prices are too high.”

  “Step into the main room,” Grace said. “We’re full. We’ve been full almost every night this month.”

  “Sure,” Gord said, “over Christmas. But when the holiday rush is over you won’t get people here if it’s too expensive.”

  “Jack,” Grace said, her words clipped, “approved the menu.”

  “I’m s
ure he did, Grace,” Gord said. “I’m simply pointing out where things could be done more efficiently.”

  “I’ll try the lamb,” Irene said.

  The food was as delightful as it had been the night before, but the mood was not. I’d thought Gord had wanted to meet us to learn about the business community of Rudolph. Instead, despite the fact that he’d been here all of four hours, it seemed as though he’d made up his mind on what he wanted to do in his father’s absence. Grace ordered the charcuterie plate for the table. When it arrived, Gord grabbed a slice of the baguette. He turned it over and studied it. He poked his finger into the middle and then broke off a piece of the crust and popped it into his mouth. “Where’d this come from?” he said, chewing.

  “Victoria’s Bake Shoppe,” I said. “Best bread in Upstate New York.”

  “I bet it’s expensive, too.” Gord reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out his iPhone. His thumbs flew.

  “The bakery’s a Rudolph institution,” I said.

  “Plenty of large-scale operations around.” Gord continued typing. I was seated next to him and managed a peek. He had the notebook application open. “I’ll see what I can find,” he said. “Bread is just bread, after all.”

  I glanced at my dad. His color was rising, and not in his habitual Jolly Saint Nick look. “Rudolph,” he said, “is a community-orientated town. Christmas Town. In Rudolph we believe that a rising tide lifts all boats. Everyone here supports everyone else’s business. Thus, we all benefit.”

  Gord laughed. “Sounds like that old Western town where folks made a living by taking in each other’s washing.”

  I glanced around the table. Dad’s face was beet red and a vein throbbed in his neck. Mom studied her napkin as if searching for the secret of life therein. Grace stared at her stepson in horror.

  “That fresh tree in the lobby looks okay and all, Grace,” Irene said. She seemed to be totally oblivious to the mood that had fallen over the table. “You should get a plastic tree that can be used every year. They come with decorations attached, so you don’t have to bother with decorating it and then taking it down again. That must take time, and time is money. Am I right, honey?”