A Little Yuletide Murder (25 page)

As he said it, I saw lights approaching, some of them flashing. A moment later, Sheriff Mort Metzger pulled up the road and stopped outside of the house. Dimitri was in the car with him, along with two deputies.

“You okay, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked as he ran up onto the porch.

“Yes, Mort, I’m fine.”

“Dimitri came and got me. Told me he’d dropped you here, but that Jake ran him off the property with a shotgun. I figured I’d better get out here pronto.”

“And I appreciate that, Mort. But everything is fine now. I think if you talk to Mary, you’ll be able to put the Rory Brent murder in your file of solved cases. In the meantime, I am very tired and would appreciate a lift home.”

“‘Who said that?’ ”

“The kindly old man looked around. Someone had said ‘I’m hungry.’ But as far as he knew, he was the only person in the house that Christmas morning.”

Seth and I continued to read from “The Dog That Talked at Christmas,” the story of a lonely old man who’d found a stray puppy in a snow-storm on Christmas Eve. In front of us this Christmas Eve were more than a hundred small children, their eyes bright, their attention totally focused on this charming tale of all creatures, great and small, sharing in the Christmas spirit.

“Could I please have something to eat?’ The old man spun around and looked down at the puppy. ‘Did you say that?’ he asked, his eyes open wide,” Seth read.

I followed with, “The puppy said, ‘All I said was I’m hungry.’ ”

Behind us on a large screen, color illustrations from the book were projected to coincide with the story’s progression. Seth and I alternated paragraphs.

“ ‘You can talk? But you’re a dog. Dogs don’t talk.’ ”

“ ‘Oh yes we can,’ the puppy said. We’re not supposed to, but I’m so hungry.’ ”

“The old man sat and stared at the puppy. A talking dog, he thought. A Christmas miracle. He could become rich with a talking dog, go on television, make commercials, become famous.”

“ ‘All dogs can talk,’ said the puppy. ‘But we know that if we do, we’ll have to go to work. Don’t tell any other dogs I broke the rule. They’ll be very mad at me.’ ”

‘The old man made them a hearty breakfast, and the puppy gave him a big, wet kiss. Tears came to the old man’s eyes. He’d been alone for so long. Having this Christmas puppy filled his house with joy and love. ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ he told the puppy. ‘But you will talk to me, won’t you?’ ”

“ ‘Of course I will.’ ”

The final picture came to life on the screen—the puppy and the old man together beneath the Christmas tree.

“ ‘Good night,’ the old man said.”

“ ‘Good night,’ said the puppy.”

“Merry Christmas!” we said in concert.

The kids got to their feet and applauded. Cynthia Curtis came from the wings and congratulated us on a wonderful performance.

“Suppose I’d better get back to the house,” Seth told me. “Still some preparations to go for the party.”

“Yes, you have twenty guests coming.”

“And you have another performance.”

“I know.” I raised my eyebrows and sighed. “I can’t believe I agreed to do it. I’d better get dressed.”

His grin was wicked. “Can’t think of a better person to play Santa, Jessica. But don’t let the little tykes cough in your face. Bad flu season coming up.”

A half hour later, after having pillows strapped to my waist and being outfitted with a brand-new Santa costume purchased by the festival committee, I sat in a large chair, propped a steady stream of children on my lap, and heard their wishes for Christmas presents. Roberta Brannason’s TV crew and the one from Portland filmed the action.

When the last child had told me what he wanted Santa to bring—some sort of expensive video game I’d never heard of—Ms. Brannason approached.

“You make a great Santa,” she said.

“Thanks. But I think I’ll retire from the job. Not easy.”

“You made it look easy, Mrs. Fletcher, like you were born to it. Now that the Brent murder has been solved, how about an interview?”

“About the case? Nothing to say.”

“No, not about the murder. About being the first female Santa Claus in Cabot Cove festival history.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d removed my false white beard and red hat, enjoying the cool air on my face and head. I said, “Give me a minute to get this beard back on, and I’ll be happy to speak with you on camera.”

The interview went well, and was actually fun. It gave me the opportunity to extoll the festival, the village, and the wonderful people who made Cabot Cove a special place at Christmas.

“Thanks a lot, Mrs. Fletcher,” Brannason said. “I really appreciate it.”

The TV folks left, and I was about to go back-stage to shed my Santa uniform when the door opened at the rear of the school gym. Jake Walther and his daughter, Jill, stepped into the gym and looked around. Jake had on his bib overalls, but wore an ill-fitting suit jacket over it. Jill was dressed in a pretty red-and-green dress suitable for the season. They slowly approached.

Hello,” I said. I was about to add “Merry Christmas,” but thought better of it, considering Mary Walther had been arrested and was in prison this Christmas Eve.

“Merry Christmas,” Jill said.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “Hello, Jake.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“You look great in that costume,” Jill said.

“And I can’t wait to get rid of it. I’m surprised to see you.”

“Didn’t want to come,” Jake muttered, “but the girl dragged me here.”

I smiled. “I’m glad she did.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Jill said, “I just wanted to come and thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“My goodness,” I said, “I’m afraid there are no thanks in order. After all, I am responsible, to a great extent, for your mom being where she is at the moment.”

“You did what you had to do,” Jake said.

“I’m glad you see it that way, Jake.”

“Mr. Turco says he’ll do everything he can to help Mary,” Jake said. “She’s a good woman. Never been in trouble her entire life. I guess the pressure got a smidge too much for her.”

I didn’t respond.

Jill stepped close to me. “The reason I wanted to come here was to ask Santa for something for Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to ask Santa that he—I guess Santa is a she this year—that she pay a little extra attention to a little girl in Salem, Maine, named Samantha. At least I assume she’s still there.”

I fought to hold back the tears.

“I just know she’s with a wonderful family who’s giving her a special Christmas. But I thought that maybe Santa would put in an extra good word for her.”

“You can count on it, Jill,” I said. “And I’m sure you’re right. Samantha is having a wonderful Christmas with a family that loves her very much.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher.”

It occurred to me that there was a wonderful, meaningful story in what had transpired with Jill Walther, a story she could write from the heart. As fiction, of course. Maybe I’d suggest it to her at another time.

“Well,” I said, “time for me to get back into my civilian clothes. I’m going to a party at Dr. Hazlitt’s house.”

“Don’t want to hold you up,” Jake said. “Much obliged for how you’ve helped Jill with college and all.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Jake. Where are you going now?”

“Back home, I reckon,” he said.

I was certain they didn’t have a Christmas tree, or any other vestiges of the holiday season. I wondered if they even had any festive food.

“Would the two of you like to come to Dr. Hazlitt’s Christmas Eve party?” I asked.

Father and daughter looked at each other.

“Please,” I said. “As my special guests.”

“I don’t figure I’d be welcome there,” said Jake.

“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’ll see to it that you’re made to feel very much at home. After all, this is Christmas.”

 

An hour later, my Santa uniform having been shed, and dressed in my holiday finery, I went with Jake and Jill Walther to Seth’s house, where the Christmas Eve party had begun. When we first walked through the door, the expression on people’s faces was of surprise, even shock. But Seth broke the tension by coming to Jake and Jill, extending his hand, and saying, “Welcome, Jake. Hello, Jill. Merry Christmas. Help yourselves. There’s plenty ’a food for everyone.”

The party broke up at eleven, and most guests headed for their homes to spend the remainder of Christmas Eve around their own trees with family. Mort Metzger, his wife, Jim and Susan Shevlin, and Seth and I handled the clean-up chores. Once the house had been put back into some semblance of order, we sat in the living room.

“It was a nice thing you did, Mrs. F., bringing Jake Walther and his daughter here,” Mort said.

“They seemed to enjoy themselves,” I said. “No matter what Mary did, they shouldn’t have to pay for it. How is she holding up in jail, Mort?”

“Pretty well. Prays a lot. Gives us no trouble. She’ll be off to the county lockup in a few days. Better facilities there. Jake and Jill visited her this afternoon. Brought a Christmas wreath and some cookies to cheer her up. I feel bad for Jake. He really wanted to be in that cell instead of his wife. Was willing to take the rap for her, and would have, if you hadn’t intervened, Mrs. F.”

“The festival was a success,” our mayor, Jim Shevlin, said. “Best ever.”

“You always say that, Jimmy,” said Seth.

“But it was the best,” Susan Shevlin said, “thanks to you, Jessica.”

I waved her compliment off and said, “Actually, being Santa Claus wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I kind of enjoyed it.”

“I wasn’t talking about playing Santa,” Susan said. “What saved the festival was having Rory Brent’s murder solved before the festival. Having it hanging over the town as an unsolved crime would have put quite a damper on things.”

“What do you think will happen to Robert Brent?” Seth asked our sheriff.

“About breaking into Mrs. F.’s house? Up to her if she wants to press charges.” They looked at me.

“I don’t intend to press any charges,” I said. “Actually, it was somewhat touching the reason he broke in and left that note. He’d gotten wind that I knew about Jill’s pregnancy and wanted to help her keep the secret. As he told you, Mort, he was looking for any papers I might have had concerning it. In some ways he’s nicer than his father was.”

“I still have trouble knowing that Rory wasn’t as nice a guy as everybody thought,” Seth said. “Sort ’a challenges your faith in mankind.”

“I don’t feel that way,” I said. “Yes, it is disillusioning that he was part of a group that preys on people like the Walthers. Hundreds of others like them all over the country. But it hasn’t destroyed my faith—in anything. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men.”

“And women,” Susan said.

“All living things,” Mort’s wife said.

“Yes, all living things,” I repeated.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la, la la.”

We went to the window and looked out at the dozen men, women, and children making the rounds singing Christmas carols. They waved; we returned the greeting. A few flakes of snow could be seen in the flickering flames of the candles they carried.

Eventually, the others left, leaving me alone with Seth. Vaughan and Olga Buckley had planned to be there, but canceled at the last minute. I wasn’t disappointed, although I always love to see them. But it was nice having some quiet time for myself, shared at that moment with my good friend, Seth.

At a few minutes before midnight, he handed me a small glass of sherry, raised his glass to touch rims with me, and said, “Merry Christmas, Jessica.”

“Yes, Seth, Merry Christmas.”

When I announced to my friends in Cabot Cove that I intended to spend a week at a Colorado dude ranch, their response was one of incredulity.

“You don’t know how to ride a horse, Mrs. F.,” Sheriff Mort Metzger said. “Might fall off and hurt yourself.”

Another friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt, said, “You write murder mysteries, Jessica, not cowboy books. Better off spendin’ a week at a place you can use in your next novel.”

They meant well, but their reactions didn’t dissuade me. I’d already accepted an invitation from old friends, Jim and Bonnie Cook, who’d left Maine years ago to fulfill their dream of owning and operating a guest ranch in Colorado. They’d called me last week. “It’s time you came out here for a visit,” Jim said. “Bonnie and I have a horse all picked out for you, the trout are jumping, and one of our best cabins has your name on it. Besides, we’re always looking for another square dance partner.”

“Please come,” Bonnie added. “It’s been years. We miss you.”

I decided on the spot to accept. I’d just finished a book and didn’t intend to start the next for a few months. A relaxing week at their ranch, The Powderhom, in Powderhom, Colorado, forty-five minutes outside of the town of Gunnison, was exactly the break I needed.

 

Three weeks later, on a lovely late August day, I boarded a flight from Boston to Denver and connected with a flight to Gunnison. Jim Cook met me at the airport. Soon, I was sipping tea with my good friends in their spacious log home.

Now, with a solid night’s sleep, and a hearty breakfast in the lodge under my belt—and some basic riding instruction from one of the ranch’s four young wranglers—I mounted my horse for the week, a splendid chestnut trail horse named Rebel, and joined a string of other guests on horseback for our first trail ride into the spectacular, rugged hills and mountains surrounding the ranch.