Chapter 3

Gobsmacked, I stared at George’s departing figure. The way George had described it, it certainly sounded as though the inability of his tractor to start this morning hadn’t been an accident. The floats and the vehicles to pull them had been assembled yesterday evening and left in the community center parking lot all night. No one in Rudolph had ever even considered we should put a guard on the floats.

Who would do something like that?

And to me!

I watched Vicky exchange a word with one of her helpers. Vicky was the only one who benefited from the disabling of my float.

No, not Vicky.

I hurried across the room to give her a hand. I was beat, but my best friend had also been on her feet all day, and she still had dishes to pack up, the kitchen to clean, and then needed to have the shelves in her bakery fully stocked and ready to open at seven tomorrow morning.

I grabbed an empty tray out of her hands. “You better take a minute and talk to that guy over there. He’s a big-time travel reporter.”

She pushed the single long lock of purple hair out of her eyes. The rest of her hair was cropped short. “I’ve been told. He was in the bakery at lunchtime. Had ham and Swiss on a baguette and potato soup. Even took a few pictures before he left. Don’t worry, I’m about to wow him with my special cookies.”

“That’s good, then,” I said, meaning the sandwiches as well as the cookies. Vicky’s baguettes were exceptional, even better than ones I’d had in Paris: soft on the inside, crusty on the outside, served with thickly spread butter from a local farm. Yummy! More than a few pounds on my hips owed their existence to that bread. I pulled my head back from dreams of warm baking. “Still, you should take a break, freshen up. I can help with the dishes.”

We walked together into the large industrial kitchen. Vicky’s helpers were washing the serving dishes and tossing unfinished food and crumpled napkins—featuring Santa’s sleigh and his nine reindeer crossing a night sky thick with stars—into the trash.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your float, Merry. Really I am. I was sure it was going to win. Although I can’t say I’m not entirely surprised that tractor of George’s finally went on strike.”

I’d decided not to tell anyone about the suspected sabotage. For now anyway. George was mighty handy with an engine, but even he could make a mistake.

I put the trays on the long table in the center of the room. One platter of untouched treats remained. “These look pretty special.”

Vicky made plain cookies, just good gingerbread cut into fun shapes. The only decorations were on the reindeer, who were given tiny red candies for noses. She didn’t believe in elaborate icing on cookies. Too much work, she said, and it detracted from the pure flavor of the cookie.

But these cookies were works of art. Edible art. The Santa suits had been painted in bright red icing, with a strip of licorice for the belt, chocolate ganache boots, and a white icing beard. The brightly costumed people had pink icing smiles and black licorice-piece eyes, and the sleigh was piled high with candy gifts. The cookies rested on a bed of coconut arranged to look like snow. The biggest and most beautiful cookie was painted with a thick layer of white icing, topped with colored icing to show a bespectacled man wearing a frock coat and a tall hat, carrying a book. I leaned over and peered closely in order to read the delicate writing painted onto the book. A Christmas Carol.

“It’s Charles Dickens!”

“I decided to do something over the top for our special guest,” Vicky said. “I hope he likes it. It was a heck of a lot of work. You’re just in time. I’m about to present it. I asked your mom to make sure Mr. Pearce stayed until the end.”

She hefted the tray and handed it to me. “You take it.”

“I can’t! You deserve the credit.”

“I’ll get the credit, you can be sure of that. But you’re dressed for the part, Mrs. Claus. Come on, let’s go.”

Her helpers stopped working to watch. The door was held open for me, and I proudly carried the tray of cookies into the room.

“What have we got here?” Dad boomed. “Ho, ho, ho!”

Mom launched into the “champagne” song from Die Fledermaus.

“For our distinguished guest,” Vicky said as everyone gathered around. Most of the tourists had left after checking their watches and muttering about reservations or getting children to bed. It was now time for the town to congratulate itself on a job well done, to pat itself on the back, and to relax . . . for about five minutes. Then we headed back to work to get ready for another busy day that was Christmas Town in December. The only outsiders remaining were Nigel Pearce and the people from Muddle Harbor. (The Muddites, we called them. They called us those blasted deer people.) Nigel snapped a photo of the gingerbread cookie display. Then he took another shot of a beaming Vicky beside the tray. Vicky indicated that she wanted me in the picture, but Nigel called for Jackie. Giggling and protesting that she had nothing to do with it, all the while shoving people aside, she snatched up a Santa and pretended to take a big bite. Her boyfriend, Kyle, hadn’t dropped his scowl all evening. He clearly wasn’t about to start now.

Russ, who regularly did triple duty as photographer and the paper’s lead reporter as well as editor in chief, snapped a picture of me with an expression on my face that would frighten small children.

“For our English visitor,” Vicky said once the cameras had stopped clicking. “I created a cookie in honor of his countryman who popularized many of the Christmas traditions we enjoy today.” She smiled at Nigel and made a sweeping gesture toward the treats.

We all applauded and Nigel Pearce, looking quite pleased with himself, stepped forward. He picked up the elaborate Dickens cookie and bit the head off in one big bite. We applauded again.

The mayor cleared his throat prior to making a speech, but he was pushed aside by the rush on the food.

Once the tray had been vacuumed clean, everyone drifted off into the night. Mom declared that she was absolutely exhausted, and Dad gave her a fond smile. The Muddites went away mumbling, although I noticed that their mayor managed to snatch a couple of extra cookies and stuff them into his pocket. Nigel Pearce drew Jackie to one side and, peering down the front of her sweater all the while, whispered in her ear. Kyle had gone to get her coat. Russ snapped one last shot of me at the moment I took a bite of the cookie I’d been able to snatch out from under the grasping hands of Sue-Anne. She gave me a look that would curdle Santa’s milk before forcing her face into a smile and turning to Russ.

“Why don’t you walk me to my car, Russell, sweetie? It’s getting so slippery out there, and these boots aren’t suitable for ice. I need a man’s strong arm.”

Vicky wiggled her eyebrows at me, and I stifled a laugh. The sidewalks had been scraped so thoroughly they’d probably lost a quarter inch of pavement, and enough salt and sand had been laid in the parking lot to equip a California beach. The last thing the town of Rudolph wanted was for one of those tourists to slip and break a leg.

But Russ was young and attractive and exceedingly charming, and Sue-Anne’s husband was rarely seen around town. Probably more to the point, however, Russ represented the town’s newspaper.

Vicky sent her helpers home, and I gave her a hand with the last of the cleaning.

“The whole day went well,” she said, packing dishes into the plastic tubs she used for transporting supplies.

“Other than me being disqualified from the parade, you mean?”

A smile touched the corner of her mouth. “Other than that. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

We were the last people to leave the community center. Vicky switched off the lights and I made sure the door had locked behind us.

“You’re not being fair!”

“Look, Jackie, I . . .”

The voices broke off. Jackie and Kyle were standing against the wall by the back door, in deep shadows where the lights from the parking lot didn’t reach. He had his hand on her arm, and his face was set into deep lines beneath narrowed black eyes. Jackie shook him off. “Night, Merry,” she called.

Kyle stepped away from her. Embarrassed, he dug grooves in the snow with the toe of his boot.

“Are you okay there?” I asked, cradling one of Vicky’s plastic tubs.

“We’re fine. Kyle doesn’t seem to understand about taking opportunities and making a grab for the brass ring.” Jackie walked into the light. Kyle wasn’t the brightest star on the Rudolph Christmas tree, but I’d always thought he was a nice guy. Too nice, maybe, for Jackie. Despite her earlier complaint that he’d dump her if he saw her elf getup, we both knew that wouldn’t happen. Jackie went through boyfriends at a rate that was beyond my ability to keep track. And when she tired of them, she liked to be the one who did the dumping.

“I understand,” he said, “about dirty old men trying to look important.”

She laughed. “Isn’t he sweet when he’s jealous, Merry? Take me home, Kyle. I’m tired.” She walked away, head high. Kyle threw me a look and then ran after her.

Vicky and I left them to sort out their problems.

At home, Mattie greeted me with his usual boundless enthusiasm. After I’d wiped away enough drool to fill a horse trough, I told him I’d be back in a minute and ran into my bedroom to change. I needed a bath, a long hot soak with lavender bubbles, to force some life back into my legs and feet, but Mattie needed a walk after spending a boring day alone in his crate. Off came the damp tights and the Mrs. Claus outfit and on went a pair of beloved old jeans and a tattered, but warm, sweater. I ran my hands through my own black curls, happy to have the cap off. Downstairs, Mattie danced around my feet in excitement, but I eventually managed to get the squiggling beast out of the way long enough to pull on my heavy winter boots and down-filled coat, wrap a long scarf around my neck, and pull a highly unattractive but functional hat with earflaps onto my head.

Last of all, I snapped the leash onto Mattie’s collar and we set off. I opened the gate, stepped onto the path, and my arm was almost detached from the socket. I might have enjoyed a pleasant stroll but walking Mattie was more of a mad gallop, abruptly interrupted by bone-shaking halts, as the dog found something interesting to sniff at and then charged off in search of the next fascinating object. This was a neighborhood of stately Victorian mansions, built in Rudolph’s heyday when it had been one of the most significant ports on the Great Lakes. Some homes were now in a state of gentle decay, many had been broken into apartments, but almost all of the houses were beautifully decorated. Grinches don’t live in Rudolph for long. Majestic trees glittered in front windows, lights were draped across porch frames and pillars or wound between tree branches. The bandstand was trimmed in hundreds of tiny white lights, and a white spotlight shone on the town’s official Christmas tree. Thick clouds continued to spill snow, and no light came from moon or stars to guide my way. The lake was a solid black void in the distance.

As we reached the park, Mattie veered off to the right, going deeper into the darkness, pulling so sharply on the leash, I staggered. My feet slid out from under me on a patch of hidden ice. My hands flew out as I tried to keep upright, releasing the leash. The dog bounded away. I fell, hard, into the deep, soft snow. For a moment I lay where I’d fallen, facedown, head buzzing. I blinked, shook my head, and struggled to roll over. I did a quick mental check. I wiggled my toes and my fingers. Everything seemed to be in place and working. My right wrist had broken my fall. It hurt like the blazes, but I could still move it, so I didn’t think anything was broken.

With a curse and a groan, slipping and sliding on the hidden ice, I pushed myself to my knees and then staggered to my feet. I blew snow off my face and wiped down my arms. I couldn’t see Mattie but I could hear him barking in the dark, toward the rocky shore of the lake.

“Mattie! Matterhorn! Get over here!”

No reply. I couldn’t see anything, but I stumbled through the deep snow, following the sound of barking. I want to be a responsible dog owner, so I always carry a flashlight and a pocketful of plastic bags on our nightly excursions. I pulled the flashlight out of my pocket and switched it on. I played the light over the expanse, seeing nothing but snow. A few more steps and there he was: a swiftly moving brown and while tail and furry butt.

“Mattie,” I said, sounding very stern. “Come here, right now!”

He turned his head and looked at me. The light caught his brown eyes. But he didn’t come at my command and turned back to whatever had grabbed his attention. It appeared to be a black plastic garbage bag.

My blood boiled. Some irresponsible citizen had chucked their garbage into the park.

The dog stopped barking and settled into a low whine. He stood over the bag, looking back at me. Urging me to come closer.

I shined the flashlight on the bag.

Something reflected back at me.

This was no garbage bag. It was person. A man.

I ran forward and dropped to my knees in the snow. Ignoring the pain in my wrist, I reached for the man. I touched his shoulder, intending to give him a good shake. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink and had foolishly lain down in the snow for a short nap, or had tripped and been knocked unconscious.

He was so very cold. I touched his neck, and nothing moved beneath my shaking fingers.

I realized that I knew him.

Nigel Pearce. The World Journey magazine reporter.