Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen (21 page)

It was news to me that Kyle was an artist.

“What does he do?” Crystal asked. “I've never seen any of Kyle's art around town.”

Jackie gave her a look. “He's experimenting with different modes of expression, trying to find an exact fit.”

Crystal snorted. I refrained from doing the same.

Jackie ignored her and spoke to me. “You'd think Uncle Jerry would concentrate on worrying about his own layabout of a son. My cousin Gerald will be in the papers someday, mark my words, having gone on a crime spree. They're hoping no one will notice Cousin Amanda has put on a lot of weight in the last couple of months. All of it around her middle and right where she didn't need it: her boobs. But, oh no, good old Uncle Jerry's too busy pointing out everyone else's faults to look under his nose. He could start by noticing that no one in the family really believes that story about how he . . .”

“We all have difficult families to deal with,” Crystal interrupted.

Jackie glared at her. “Says Miss Perfect.”

“I didn't want to take violin lessons, you know,” Crystal retorted. “I hate the violin. But my mother said I had to have a well-rounded musical education, and voice isn't enough.”

“Well, my mom . . .”

I knew I had some reason for asking Jackie what she'd done last night, but by now I'd forgotten what that might have been.

“I was so annoyed at being lectured by Uncle Jerry about
what's the matter with young people these days, all while Gerald was wondering how much cash he could take from his dad's wallet without being noticed and Amanda stuffed her face with the dinner rolls, I went straight to my apartment after dinner. Poor Kyle has enough to deal with, after his accident, that he doesn't need to hear me complaining.” She sniffed. “He went out with a couple of his buddies, anyway.”

“Isn't Kyle supposed to be recuperating?” Crystal said.

“A night with his friends would have done him some good,” Jackie said, although her tone of voice indicated that she didn't believe it.

The chimes over the door tinkled, and the girls cut off their conversation. It didn't matter: I'd learned what I wanted to know. Kyle's whereabouts last night were unaccounted for. I hadn't entirely forgotten that of everyone in Rudolph, Kyle had the strongest reason to want to get rid of Nigel Pearce. Simmonds had told me that GHB was a street drug. I suppose anyone, even me, could buy street drugs if they wanted to, and probably in Rudolph, too. But of all the people I was beginning to think of as suspects, Kyle was the most likely to know his way around that world.

It was possible that he'd caused the fire in the hot dog cart himself and then came around in the night to do the same to my garbage. It would be worth asking Simmonds, on the sly, if Kyle had ever been suspected of arson. I'd never thought Kyle was particularly bright: maybe he liked watching the cops run about trying to solve the problem he'd given them, and decided to do it again. Although there was absolutely no reason I could think of for Kyle to want to get my dad out of town. That had not been a police matter. All these
incidents were so disparate; I was beginning to wonder if they were related at all.

Rudolph was a quiet, peaceful place. Aside from our Christmas obsession, we were a perfectly normal little town in Upstate New York. It seemed unlikely that all the crazies (murderous and otherwise) would come out of the woodwork at the same time.

It was time, I decided, that someone asked Kyle directly if he was up to something.

I told Jackie and Crystal I was off to get some lunch. Did they want me to bring anything back from Vicky's? My treat.

Jackie gave me another one of her suspicious looks.

“You've both been working so hard,” I said. “I'd like to show my appreciation.”

Jackie might have muttered something along the lines of “then give us a raise,” before asking for soup and a salad.

“Thanks, Merry. That's so nice of you,” Crystal said. “I'd like a sandwich. Anything without meat will be fine.”

“As long as I'm at the bakery anyway,” I said, “why don't I pick up something for Kyle? I can drop it off at his place.”

“Why would you do that?” Jackie said.

“Because he's been injured. My good deed of the week.” I smiled at her. “Where does he live, anyway?”

She gave me an address on Elm Street. “Basement apartment. Ring the bell for 2B.”

The bakery was busy and I didn't have a chance to say hi to Vicky. Which was just as well, as I didn't want her knowing what I was up to. She would insist on coming, and then the whole thing would turn into high drama. Of course,
I didn't have to tell her, but somehow I always blurted things out to Vicky whether I wanted to or not.

I chose a roast beef on rye for Kyle, thinking he'd like something manly. Then I threw in an order of gingerbread cookies. Maybe that would jog his memory about the fatal post-parade reception.

Elm Street is not the best part of town. Most of the houses are old, many are falling into disrepair. But even here the Christmas spirit is strong, and I noticed trees and eaves trimmed with lights, and wreaths hanging on many doors. Kyle's building was broken into apartments, judging by the row of buzzers by the front entrance. I pressed 2B and waited.

“What?” said a tinny voice.

“Hi, Kyle. It's Merry Wilkinson. I've brought you some lunch.”

“Why?”

“I thought you'd like something fresh.”

“Leave it on the step.”

I hadn't considered that. “I wouldn't want it to get stolen.” Suppose he wasn't dressed? Suppose he was entertaining a woman other than Jackie? Suddenly this didn't seem like such a good idea.

The buzzer sounded, and I pushed my doubts aside and opened the door.

The hall was full of the scent of old grease, stale tobacco smoke, and Lysol. The single bulb above the entrance was dim and little light came in through the only window. I found the stairwell and carefully picked my way down into the gloom. There were two doors. 1B and 2B. I knocked, and Kyle grunted, “It's open.”

I'd been expecting a filthy dump, but the apartment was moderately tidy. The furniture had been fashionable in the '70s but it looked clean. Kyle was relaxing in a La-Z-Boy, feet up, bottle of beer and full ashtray on a side table. Fortunately, he was dressed. A hockey game was playing on the giant flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. I glanced quickly around. Maybe he was an artist after all. A stack of canvases were piled against one wall, paint and brushes were laid out on a table, and an easel was set up by the high window. I sniffed, trying to be unobtrusive, but couldn't detect the odors of paint or cleaning supplies.

Did artists get artist's block?

Kyle dragged his attention away from the TV, dropped his legs, and straightened the chair. “Thanks, Merry.”

I carried the bakery bag into the kitchen and put it on the table. Dishes were piled in the sink, but they didn't look as though they'd been there more than a few days. Except for a case of beer bottles, the countertops were clear.

I walked back to the living room. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” he said.

His goatee had been shaved off and his eyebrows were singed. Otherwise his face was clear.

“You had a lucky escape,” I said.

He shuddered. “Yeah.”

“Do you know what happened?”

He shook his head. “Dan told me the cops have taken the grill away. Just as well. I don't want to go near the freakin' thing ever again.” He reached for a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out. He lifted a disposable lighter in front of him. His hand shook so badly he had to flick it several times to get a flame. He cringed as he held fire to the cigarette. He took a
deep drag. “Let me tell you, Merry, it'll be a long time before I ever have another barbeque.” He rubbed his free hand over his chin and closed his eyes.

“I hope you'll be feeling better soon,” I said.

“I'm fine. I just keep thinking about it, that's all,” he said.

“Enjoy your lunch.” I let myself out.

If Kyle Lambert had come around to my place last night and set my garbage on fire, I'd grow a goatee myself.

I was back to square one.

*   *   *

Crystal left at five, and at six I closed the shop. Jackie headed out to administer to Kyle. I hurried home to shower and change for my dinner date at Alan's.

Was it a date? I still didn't know.

I studied my wardrobe. Definitely not something sexy, in case he thought he was inviting a client around for a business dinner. Then again, not too businesslike as it was a Sunday night in Upstate New York. On the other hand, I didn't want to look like a country hick, either.

I settled on jeans with an unadorned blue T-shirt and a cropped black leather jacket. I wrapped a blue scarf around my neck, and added dangling silver earrings. At the door, I pulled on calf-high boots with a one-inch heel. And then I ruined the carefully crafted effect by tossing on my new winter coat. Alan's place was in the country and more snow was expected tonight. I knew better than to go even a short distance out of town unprepared for some sort of car emergency.

“You look very nice, too,” I said to Mattie. I'd given him a good brushing after I'd showered, washed my hair, and
dressed. Perhaps I should have brushed him before doing all that, as I'd then had to pick strands of long tan fur off my clothes and reapply the lipstick and blush he'd licked off in his appreciation of my attentions.

I hadn't had many chances to take Mattie out in the car, but the couple of times I had he'd seemed to enjoy it. Tonight, he leapt into the backseat when I held the door open for him. I owned a Honda Civic. I might need to get a bigger car when this dog finally stopped growing. If he ever did.

I'd been to Alan's house before, sourcing products for the store. He lived about fifteen minutes outside of Rudolph, heading inland from Lake Ontario. His property was deep in the woods, beautifully quiet and private. He lived in a nineteenth-century stone farmhouse, which I'd never been inside. He did all his work in a detached workshop at the end of the long curving dirt road that served as his driveway.

Snow began to fall as Mattie and I headed out of town. The bright lights of Rudolph faded behind us, and the early winter dark swallowed us up. My headlights picked out falling, swirling flakes. Trees, skeletal branches heavy with snow, closed around us. We only passed a handful of cars, but Mattie got very excited when he saw the headlights approaching. I kept an eye on my mileage indicator, counting off the distance until the turn toward Alan's house. It wasn't well marked, and I could easily miss it in the dark.

I slowed, and turned in. The road had been recently plowed, but fresh, undisturbed snow was beginning to cover it again. The path was lined by giant old oaks, maples, and tall pines heavy with snow. The trees fell back as I drove into the clearing of Alan's well-maintained property. Warm yellow lights were on throughout the house, and strands of
welcoming Christmas lights, red and green, trimmed the porch railing and the eaves. I felt myself smiling. What a perfect place for Santa's number one toymaker to live and work.

All the lights were off in the workshop building. I pulled in beside it. We were going to be loading boxes into my car, so I wanted to be close. I switched off the engine, climbed out of the car, and let Mattie out. I didn't want him running off into the night woods in pursuit of little animals to play with, so I attached the leash to his collar. The front door of the house opened, and Alan stood there, a long, thin silhouette outlined in a blaze of light. He lifted one hand in greeting and began to come down the steps.

Off to my left, something caught my eye. Light where there shouldn't be any. I looked closer. A red glow flickered behind the window of the workshop. It disappeared and I thought my eyes had been playing tricks.

Then I saw it again, larger and brighter. As I watched, the light steadied, and then it began to grow. Shades of yellow joined the red.

Alan's workshop was on
fire.

“F
ire!” I screamed. “Alan, the workshop!”

Mattie barked.

Alan was beside me in a moment. I pointed. Flames were clearly visible now, licking at the window frame.

With a shout, Alan ran for the building.

“Don't go in,” I yelled. The door was on the opposite side of the workshop from the now-visible flames, but there was no way of knowing what else might be happening inside.

“Fire extinguisher,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Kitchen.”

I ran. On the outside Alan's house was all weathered stone and freshly painted gingerbread trim, but the inside was open spaces and sleek modern lines. The front door opened directly onto a big, open-plan kitchen. I had no trouble locating the small fire extinguisher attached to the wall next to the gas stove. I wrenched the extinguisher out
of its brackets and dashed outside. Mattie was running around the yard, barking. I'd dropped the leash without realizing it. Right now, I could only hope he wouldn't run off into the woods and get snagged on something.

I ran into the workshop; waves of white smoke washed over me as they fought their way toward fresh night air. I coughed and my eyes stung. It was impossible to see much in the dark and the smoke, but I could see that the entire building wasn't on fire. Not yet. The room was warm, but not frighteningly hot.

Alan was beating at the flames with a blanket. With a shout, I handed him the extinguisher. He tossed aside the blanket, aimed the extinguisher at the heart of the fire, and sprayed. The blaze died without putting up a fight. We'd gotten it in time.

The planks of planed, golden wood stacked neatly beneath the window were a couple of inches thick, and not inclined to burn easily. Some smaller pieces on top had caught fire and acted like kindling, giving the blaze time to grow and to build. A few more minutes and Alan might well have lost his workshop, all his raw wood, and the toys and woodwork both unfinished and ready to be shipped. He tossed the empty extinguisher to one side and approached the smoldering debris. His eyes were red and a streak of black ash ran across one cheek. He coughed.

“Careful,” I said, trying not to breathe in smoke. I sniffed the air, but I detected nothing but the familiar scent of woodsmoke, although thicker and much heavier than from a cheerfully burning fireplace. Mattie had followed me into the workshop. He let out a mighty sneeze and whined. He
pressed against my leg and I gave him a comforting pat. The comfort, as much for me as for him.

Alan picked up a long, thin piece of wood, and with it he stirred ashes and burned scraps of wood, checking for the remains of live embers.

“What the heck?” he said as he uncovered the scorched remains of a scrap of red fabric. Using the pole, he lifted the cloth, brought it close to his nose, and sniffed. He turned and gave me a look.

“Gas.”

I sucked in a breath without thinking, and choked. Through my cough, I managed to say, “You think this was deliberate?” I glanced around the workshop. A woodstove stood against the back wall, but it was dark and cold. An electric heater was not even plugged in.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.” He pointed to the broken window and the floor beneath. A rock, a small, ordinary gray rock, about the size of my fist, lay there, surrounded by shards of glass. “Someone deliberately broke that window. I heard a sound ten minutes or so ago, didn't pay it any mind. I hear lots of sounds in the woods at night. And then, it would seem, they tossed in a burning cloth.”

“Someone tried to burn down your workshop?”

“They didn't try very hard, though. Just one cloth—might have gone out if those loose wood chips hadn't caught. If they really wanted to burn it down, why not spread gas over the exterior walls? The building's old and all wood, it would have gone up fast enough.”

“Is there much damage?” I studied a row of toy soldiers and trains on the table closest to the window. The paint
was blistered and the wood blackening, but they seemed to be intact.

“That's the drying table,” Alan said. “I'll give them a good look, but I suspect I'll have to throw most of them out. I'm sorry, Merry, but those are the ones I had ready for you. I figured you could help me box them up after dinner. Some might be saved, if I add a fresh coat of paint. I'm so sorry,” he said again.

“Don't apologize,” I said. “You have to call Detective Simmonds. This is part of a pattern, Alan. Strange things have been happening around here. You could have been killed if the fire got out of control and you tried to put it out yourself.”

He gave me a grin that didn't reach his eyes. The tip of his nose was gray with smudged ash. “Looks like you saved my life, Merry.”

“I had good timing, that's all.”

Alan grabbed a flashlight hanging on a hook next to the door beside an assortment of raincoats and umbrellas and a battered snow shovel, and went outside. I bent to grab Mattie's leash, and the dog and I followed Alan around the workshop to the side of the building where the fire had apparently begun.

Under the window, snow was churned up, but some boot prints were clearly visible. Mattie strained at the leash to get closer to give it all a good sniff. “I'd better put the dog in the car,” I said. “Looks like we have a crime scene here.”

Mattie didn't want to come, but I dragged him away. I opened the back door of the car and indicated he should jump up. He didn't want to but he did. Despite what was
happening around us, I had a moment of pleasure at the thought that some of his training was starting to pay off.

“You wait here,” I said, unfastening the leash. “I'll be right back.”

I stuffed the leash into my coat pocket and returned to where Alan was balanced on his haunches, examining the prints in the snow under the window. “See anything?” I said.

He got to his feet and pointed to the double row of prints. In places they crisscrossed each other, but it was clear that some were coming, and some were heading away.

“I'm no Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “but that looks to me like a clear trail. Did you see a car or anything when you came up the drive, Merry?”

“No. And no tire tracks, either. The snow was undisturbed.”

“Which means our arsonist walked in.”

“From where?” I asked

“That's the question, isn't it? He might have parked on an access road and hiked in. Or . . .”

His voice trailed away as he took off at a brisk pace across his yard, keeping himself about two feet to the left of the boot prints.

“Don't, Alan,” I said. “Let the police handle it.”

He turned and faced me. The blue eyes that I had once thought as clear and light as a summer sky were heavy with storm clouds. “I can't chance them getting away, Merry. You wait here, and tell the cops where I've gone.” He reached out and touched my shoulder. The touch so light I scarcely felt it. “Get in the house, lock the doors. Take the dog with you.”

“Mattie isn't exactly an attack dog,” I said.

“No. But he is a dog. And a smart one.” Then Alan turned and walked away. In a few steps he was swallowed up by the night woods. I glanced back at my car. Mattie's ears were up and his curious face stared out at me from the back window. I looked at Alan's house. The front door stood open, the way he'd left it when he came out to greet me. While we were inside the workshop, fighting the fire, the arsonist might have gone into the house. Was he or she in there now? Waiting for me?

I shoved my hand into the deep pocket of my coat, searching for my phone to call the police. My fingers closed on a square of paper, and I pulled out the card Diane Simmonds had given me this morning. I could call 911, ask them to contact her, but I figured I'd be better off doing it directly. Who knows when a message might get to her if she was off duty? I flipped the card over and punched the handwritten numbers into the phone.

“Diane Simmonds,” said the cool voice.

I told her where I was and what had happened. I surprised myself at how calm my voice sounded.

“I'm on my way,” she said. “I'll call the state police to meet me there. Do not attempt to locate the suspect yourself, Merry.”

“Okay,” I said. I wasn't attempting to locate anyone. But Alan was. I didn't say so before I hung up.

I glanced once again at the house and the open front door, spilling welcoming light into the yard. I wasn't conscious of making a decision, but I broke into a trot after Alan. Safety in numbers, and all that. I did spare a thought for Mattie, but decided he'd be better waiting in the car. He'd be no help to
me and I'd only have something else to worry about while we stumbled around in the night woods. I found the flashlight app on my phone and flicked it on. Then I melted into the thick, dark, snowy woods. The beam of light from my phone was small but powerful as it illuminated the ground in front of me. I'd entered a path. At least three feet wide, it cut neatly through the woods. I could clearly see the boot prints we were following, Alan's larger ones running along beside. Were they from a man or a woman? Hard to tell. They were average-sized snow boots, strong and heavy, with a thick tread. They might be those of a woman with larger feet than normal, or a man with smaller ones.

“I told you to stay behind,” a voice said out of the darkness.

I smothered a yelp. “I thought you might need help.”

“Come on” was all Alan said.

The path got narrower as we walked, and we had to go in single file, staying close to the prints laid down earlier.

“What's at the other end of this trail?” I whispered. All was dark and quiet. No traffic from the road and no sound from wild animals, either.

“My closest neighbor. Fergus Cartwright.”

“You mean our mayor?”

“The very one. The people who lived here before him had kids and the kids loved to come to visit me in the workshop, so their parents kept this trail clear.”

Fergus's house wasn't far away, and before long, thin streams of yellow light slipped through the trees. Alan signaled to me to stop at the edge of the wide, snow-covered lawn. It, and the parking area in front of the double garage, were brightly lit.

Snow was falling heavily now, not fat Christmassy flakes, but hard pellets mixed with ice. I pulled my collar up and buried my hand in my pockets. Somewhere along the way, I'd lost my gloves. Alan, who'd stepped out of his house expecting only to welcome a guest, was protected by nothing but a thick wool sweater.

Fergus's house was modern, a large building of wood and glass with a wide wraparound porch and a double garage. A stone chimney broke through the roof at the front of the house. Lights were on inside, both upstairs and down, and smoke trailed from the chimney.

The double garage doors were closed and a single vehicle was parked in the circle of light thrown off the porch. A black Suburban. I sucked in a breath.

“What is it?” Alan said.

“I recognize that car. Give me a sec.” I slipped through the trees until I could clearly see the back of the vehicle and read the license plate: SUEANNE1.

I whispered to Alan, “Sue-Anne Morrow's here. I recognize her car.”

Illuminated only by my iPhone app, his eyes shone in the dark. “Did you call the cops?”

“Simmonds is coming, and she's sending the state police.”

“Call her back,” he said. “Then give me the phone.”

I placed the call and handed the phone to Alan. He spoke quickly, gave the address. And then he hung up.

All was quiet. We couldn't even hear traffic from the road.

“We can't wait,” Alan said. “I have to go in. See what's going on. Fergus might be in danger.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“I'd rather you weren't, Merry, but I don't suppose I can stop you?”

“No,” I said.

So, it was Sue-Anne after all. Sue-Anne trying to ruin Christmas in Rudolph. Sue-Anne who'd poisoned the Charles Dickens cookie, who'd tried to burn down Alan's workshop, set fire to my garbage can, disabled my float, tried to get my dad out of town.

I almost slapped myself across the head as I remembered who'd been raised on a farm. Sue-Anne's husband had told me she had. Hardscrabble, he'd called it. In that case, it was entirely possible Sue-Anne would know how to disable George's tractor.

“Let's go,” Alan said. “Stay behind me.”

He marched boldly across the snowy lawn and up the front steps, making no attempt to be discreet or stay hidden. I ran along behind him, my heart beating rapidly.

We hesitated on the porch. From inside the house came the sound of voices. Low, angry voices.

Alan didn't bother to knock. He simply turned the doorknob and walked into Fergus Cartwright's house, calling, “Anyone home?” as if this were a regular Sunday visit. I scurried after him.

Perhaps the first thing I noticed was that the house was not decorated for Christmas. No lovingly adorned fresh tree, no carefully preserved family heirlooms, handed down from generation to generation, no red and white flowers, no handcrafted arrangements. Not even a poinsettia or a Christmas cactus.