Dying in a Winter Wonderland Read online

  She turned her face slightly to the side and leaned toward me. I obliged by giving her a peck on the cheek and was enveloped in a familiar wave of Chanel No. 5.

  Mom headed for the door. She put her hand on the knob, hesitated, and then turned to face me. “Do try to keep that foolish girl out of trouble.”

  Jackie looked up, startled. “What?”

  “Not you, dear,” Mom said. “Not this time, anyway.”

  Chapter 6

  Unlike my mother, I’m often early. And I don’t consider it to be a fault.

  Case in point: I pulled up to the Yuletide Inn shortly after two. I’d decided to come ahead of Luanne and her mother to have a quiet look around. I know the Yuletide Inn well. I’ve spent a lot of time here, but today I wanted to look at it through a different eye. My design editor’s eye.

  The gardens of the Yuletide Inn are one of the top attractions in Rudolph. In the spring and summer they’re ablaze with flowers, pathways and flower beds are lined with carefully trimmed bushes and hedges, water pours from stone statues in the fountains, the gently sloping lawns are as well maintained as any golf course, and ducks and geese drift serenely on the small pond at the far end of the property. In winter the beds are turned over, the fountains drained, the duck pond frozen over, and many of the bushes covered in burlap, but the gardens are still impressive in their stark white beauty.

  As I started to get out of my car, a family came out of the inn. Grandparents, Mom, Dad, and three excited children bundled into colorful snowsuits, heavy scarves, and thick mittens. I recognized the man from Alabama who’d come into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures in such a panic on Christmas Eve.

  The smiling woman next to him was wearing a pair of Crystal Wong’s wreath-shaped earrings, and the youngest child carried a plush reindeer, also bought at my shop. The children squealed, kicked up snow, and ran in circles as they headed down the path leading to the back of the inn and the small decline that serves as a tobogganing hill. The father pulled one of the bright red sleighs the inn keeps on hand for the use of their guests. Families are welcome to roll up all the snow they want to make snow sculptures, and when the ice is deemed thick enough, the pond’s opened for skating. On Saturdays between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the inn hires a horse and wagon to take guests into Rudolph in style.

  In a way, I was pleased at the change in Luanne’s wedding plans. I’m a Rudolphite; I love winter. I could do a lot with winter decor. Think shades of ice-blue and silver with a touch of peach or salmon. Fake fur and imitation ice and snow. Maybe I could do a forest theme. I wouldn’t have to go far to find inspiration for that: the woods surrounding Alan’s house were incredibly beautiful at this time of year. I could ask Alan to make the place-setting holders out of fresh logs, cut into small pieces. He wouldn’t have to go far for the raw materials; he scrounged much of the wood he used from dead branches or windfalls on his property and often followed maintenance workers into the woods if they had to clear trees.

  I’d originally planned to do the reception room and the tablescapes around flowers, as befits a wedding in July, but this would also work. If only I had more than seven weeks to pull it all together. I didn’t even know if Alan had time to make two hundred and fifty place-setting holders.

  I got out of my car, intending to go into the banquet room on my own first, to take some pictures of the space and the layout of the room before being overwhelmed by Luanne’s chatter.

  Instead, a car parked close to the front doors caught my attention. I was pretty sure I’d last seen that dark blue Porsche at the Ireland home on Christmas Eve.

  I looked around and spotted another car I knew. Mom’s.

  Mom hadn’t said anything to me about coming to the inn today. Maybe her plans had changed and she’d dropped in to visit Grace.

  I hesitated. The only reason Jeff Vanderhaven would be at the Yuletide Inn was on wedding business. I had absolutely no desire to run into him, and particularly not when I was on my own. I changed my mind about checking out the banquet room before meeting with Luanne and Mark Grosse.

  Instead, I decided to seek inspiration with a walk through the gardens. I wasn’t wearing heavy boots, but the morning’s snow had stopped falling a while ago and the main paths had been shoveled clear. I tightened my scarf around my neck, shoved my hands into my coat pockets, and headed for the gardens.

  It would be nice to have the ceremony out here, I thought. Everyone could be told to bundle up, throws and blankets placed on the chairs, the main part of the service kept short so people wouldn’t get too chilly. I thought about that as I walked through a low boxwood hedge into the rose garden. The bushes were bare, the snow pure and sparkling, the row of stately ancient oaks in the distance stark in the simplicity of their bare branches outlined against the deep blue winter sky.

  No one else was around, and all was quiet and so peaceful.

  An outdoor ceremony would be perfect on a day like today—brilliant sunlight, temperatures hovering just below the freezing point, freshly fallen snow. But weather in Upstate New York in February isn’t exactly reliable. I’d have to ask the hotel’s event manager how much notice that it was a go they’d need before setting up chairs and an altar or podium outside.

  I pulled out my phone and snapped pictures and jotted down notes. To my right, a high hedge of American holly surrounded a small clearing containing a stone bench and a bronze statue of a girl playing with a dog. Meandering paths approached the clearing from three directions, but otherwise, even in winter, the thick hedge provided complete privacy. The bride and her parents and attendants could gather there, out of sight before the ceremony began. The statue in the rose garden, a woman pouring water from a stone jug, would make a perfect backdrop for the podium. The water had been turned off for the winter, and the pool at her feet drained, but we could ice it over and sprinkle flowers across the top.

  I realized I was having fun letting my imagination run wild. I’d scale it back later, to fit not only Luanne’s budget but the practicalities of February weather and the necessity of being able to adapt plans on the day, if not the hour, of the wedding itself.

  I was pulled out of my reverie by an angry shout to my right, coming from the far side of the row of holly. The shout was followed by a soft cry, a grunt, and then a thud as something solid hit the ground.

  “Is everything okay over there?” I called.

  A branch rustled and snow squeaked and then all was quiet once again. I mentally shrugged and went back to my thoughts. Luanne should like the idea; she was having her dress winterized with a fur collar and long sleeves. I hadn’t seen the dress, but maybe a white cape could be thrown over it for the ceremony. That would give her a dramatic impact I thought she’d appreciate.

  How much Harvey Ireland would appreciate the extra cost was another matter. I made more notes. It was my job to make the suggestions, within reason, and Luanne’s to decide to follow them or not. That’s why they were paying me the big bucks. If ever I saw a penny of it. I made another note to make sure I got paid in full before the wedding day. I didn’t know if Harvey Ireland was the type to cheat a small-business owner out of what had been agreed on, and I had no intention of ever finding out.

  As for the flowers, the wedding was going to be on February 14, Valentine’s Day. Maybe have a single bouquet of red roses out here; that would be striking against the snowy backdrop, and then the silver, blue, and peach to carry the winter theme into the hall.

  I heard running footsteps, muffled by the snow and the holly hedge. A man cried out in surprise and then yelled, “Help! I need help here!”

  I forgot all about flowers and weddings and dashed across the snow-covered lawn to a path that led to the quiet clearing. I broke through the hedge and stopped dead in my tracks.

  My brother, Chris, knelt on the snow. A man lay on his back in front of him. Perhaps because I’d been so recently thinking about red roses,
I wondered where all the red petals had come from. The snow beneath and around the man’s head was littered with them.

  Gradually my mind took in what it was seeing. Not red flowers but blood.

  Chris’s hands hovered next to the man’s head, and his gloves were spotted with drops of blood. A rock, also dotted with blood, lay on the ground near him.

  Jeff Vanderhaven stared up into the winter sky and he did not move.

  Chapter 7

  Chris! What are you doing?”

  My brother blinked up at me. A cut ran through the corner of his lip and the delicate skin under his right eye was black and purple and swollen. “Merry?”

  I tore my attention away from my brother and looked at Jeff. His arms were outstretched, his coat unbuttoned, and his head lay at an unnatural angle. His eyes were open, staring into the deep blue winter sky, but they were unseeing.

  “Call 911,” Chris said. “I . . . I didn’t know if I should move him. If I should try to help. Ask them what we should do.”

  I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket and made the call. I told the operator I needed an ambulance at the Yuletide Inn. “He’s hit the back of his head and he’s . . . not moving.”

  “Help is on its way,” the woman at 911 said in a soft calm voice. “Don’t disturb anything. I’m sending the police as well. Please stay on the line until they arrive.”

  With a burst of relief, I remembered what had happened last night. The injuries to Chris’s face were old, already starting to heal. I put my hand on my brother’s shoulder. “They’re on their way. I . . .” I swallowed. “I . . . think he’s dead. What are you doing here?”

  “Mom told me you were meeting Luanne today. I thought . . . I want to be sure she’s going to be okay.”

  What I meant was, what was Chris doing here, in the garden, crouching over the body of Jeff Vanderhaven. But I didn’t get the chance to ask the question. We both started at a yell. Chris leapt to his feet and I spun around.

  A groundskeeper stood in the gap between the bushes, staring at us. He was an older guy, his face dark and craggy from working outdoors all summer, gray-haired, with an untrimmed gray goatee. He wore a brown winter coat with good boots and heavy work gloves. A snow shovel was in his hand.

  He gripped the shovel tightly and lifted it in front of him. He kept his eyes on Chris and took a step backward.

  “It’s okay. We found him like this. We’ve called 911.” I held up my phone as evidence. The operator asked me what was happening.

  The groundskeeper took another step, released one hand from the shovel, and put the free hand in his pocket. “I’m taking out my radio. Okay?”

  “Of course it’s okay,” Chris said. “My sister told you we found him like this. We didn’t do it.”

  “Whatever you say, pal.”

  “I’m Merry Wilkinson and this is my brother, Chris. Our parents are Aline and Noel Wilkinson, friends of Jack and Grace. Call them.”

  “I’ll call them, all right.” He pulled out his radio, pushed a button, and spoke quickly. “I need security, now. By the dog statue near the rose garden. Call the cops.”

  The tension was broken by the sound of sirens—lots of them—getting closer.

  I hadn’t hung up. The operator was still on the line. “Thank you,” I said into my phone. “They’re here.” I disconnected the call.

  A hotel security guard burst into the clearing. He was young, barely old enough to shave, inexperienced, new. He saw me first, nodded, and said, “Hey, Merry.” Then he saw what lay at my feet, and his eyes widened and all the blood drained from his face.

  “Take a deep breath,” I said. “Slow and careful. There you go.”

  My brother threw me a look. I shrugged.

  When he recovered, the guard said, “What . . . what happened?”

  “That’s the question,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

  The groundskeeper lowered his shovel, but he continued to eye us warily.

  We heard pounding footsteps and voices shouting. The security guard and Chris yelled, “Over here,” and police and medics burst through the hedge.

  “Not you again,” Officer Candice Campbell said to me.

  “Hi, Candy.” I used her high school nickname only because she hates it. Candy and I had never gotten on.

  “Hi, Chris.” Her eyes widened when she saw the bruising on his face, but she didn’t mention it.

  “Hi,” he replied.

  Medics dropped on either side of Jeff. I looked away.

  “They were here,” the groundskeeper said quickly. “I saw him”—pointing at Chris—“kneeling over him, lifting the head to do it again.”

  “You saw nothing of the sort,” I yelled. “Chris was trying to help, but then he realized there was nothing he could do.”

  The security guard looked at Jeff and, judging by the way his face turned color, wished he hadn’t.

  “Did you do this, Merry?” Candy asked.

  I didn’t dignify that comment with a reply.

  “What about you, Chris?”

  “I saw him walking down the path a short while ago,” Chris said. “I . . . I waited for him inside the hotel, but when he didn’t come back, I decided to follow. I . . . found him. Like this.”

  Candy turned to me.

  “I heard Chris call for help and came to see what was going on. You need to secure the area. I was in the rose garden, over there.” I pointed behind me. “I didn’t see anyone until I got here. Chris, you came directly from the hotel?”

  “Yeah. I walked down the main path. Other than Jeff, I saw no one, and no one passed me in either direction.”

  “Therefore the killer must have come from there.” I pointed to my left, to where a small brick walkway wended through the hedge, creating a bit of a play garden for children. “He’ll have left footprints.”

  “Sorry,” the groundskeeper muttered. “Just finishing up the paths.”

  As Candy shouted “Stay where you are, Merry,” I followed the third path and peeked out of the hedgerow. I groaned. The walkway had been shoveled clean only moments before, and mounds of fresh show had been tossed to the side of the path. If the killer had come this way, his—or her—footprints had been obliterated.

  “Did you see anyone?” I asked the groundskeeper.

  “I just got back from my break,” he said. “Wasn’t paying attention anyway. Folks are always coming and going around here.”

  “Don’t answer any of her questions,” Candy yelled. “She’s not in charge here. I am.”

  “Just trying to be helpful,” I said.

  “You can be helpful waiting up at the inn.” Detective Diane Simmonds stepped into the clearing. Her large green eyes studied the body, and then she turned to the circle of people watching. Her trim figure was hidden under a puffy black coat, her hands were bare, and she tucked a loose section of red curls behind her ear. “I assume you two are employees of the hotel,” she said to the security guard and groundskeeper. “Merry, I know. Who are you?”

  “This is my brother,” I said, “Christopher Wilkinson. Chris, Detective Diane Simmonds.”

  “Hi,” he said.

  Simmonds didn’t reply; instead she pointedly looked at his bruised and battered face.

  “I tried to help.” Chris shifted from one foot to another. “But I was too late.”

  She took a plastic evidence bag out of her pocket. “I’ll take your gloves, please. If you don’t mind.”

  I knew that it didn’t matter whether he minded or not. Chris peeled the gloves off and, with a shudder, dropped them into the offered bag. Simmonds handed the bag to Candy. “Tag this.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Chris said.

  “That will be determined,” Simmonds replied.

  I tried to give my brother an encouraging smile. It didn’t work.

&nbs
p; The medics crouched over Jeff Vanderhaven, exchanged whispers, and talked into their radios. Notably, they didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

  “Were you the first officer to arrive?” Simmonds asked Candy.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’ve done a remarkably poor job of securing the scene.”

  Candy’s face tightened and turned bright red. Instead of gloating, I felt bad. She didn’t have an easy job and I hadn’t made it any easier. It was long past time to put schoolgirl animosities aside.

  “That was my fault,” I said quickly. “Sorry. I thought we’d . . . I mean you’d be able to get footprints off the snow, but the path the killer must have used has been cleared and snow thrown everywhere.”

  “Don’t blame me,” the groundskeeper grumbled. “I didn’t know this was a crime scene till I got here.”

  The medics pushed themselves to their feet. The taller one gave Simmonds a shake of her head.

  The groundskeeper bowed his own head and muttered a prayer. Chris looked stunned. With a pang, I thought about Luanne, here to plan her wedding. However conflicted she might be about marrying Jeff, it shouldn’t have ended this way.

  “I’ll talk to you all in turn back at the hotel,” Simmonds said, “but first, do any of you know who this man is?” Uniformed officers had begun stringing crime scene tape between the trees. The medics packed up their equipment. More police arrived.

  “Jeff Vanderhaven,” Chris and I said at the same time.

  “He’s from Rochester,” I added. “Here to have Christmas with his fiancée and her family.” I checked my watch. Two thirty-five. “She should be here now. I’m supposed to be meeting her to discuss wedding plans at two thirty.”

  “In that case, I’ll come with you,” Simmonds said. “Officer Williams!” A man trotted up.