As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles Page 8

  But her words changed the picture a bit. Could anybody be quite so conscience-free as to steal from her employer, then immediately go see the parents who’d shunned her for that very activity?

  Everybody’s got motives the rest of us can’t see. But that sounded pure crazy.

  “I saw her in the village. We talked. We had cocoa together.” I scribbled my name on the credit card screen. “I liked her.”

  And I could see on the nameless cashier’s face the impact of her death. Whatever Greg Taylor’s reasons for trying to throw me off the scent, I was no sweet, clingy shelter dog. I intended to be a pit bull who held on and didn’t let go.

  ∞

  On the sidewalk in front of the Merc stood a very pregnant woman, one hand on her low back as she squinted at the roof line. My sister.

  I made a half U-turn to slip the car into a diagonal spot and climbed out.

  “You gotta get this fixed,” Chiara said.

  “The soffit’s all rotted. Nick did some repairs last winter, so I was hoping he could fix it.”

  “He’s busy, Erin. What about Adam?”

  Winter isn’t usually a wildlife biologist’s busy time, but even after traipsing around the woods with Nick last winter, there was a lot I didn’t understand about his work. “He’s worked so hard on the house, I didn’t want to ask. He finally let me see the basement, by the way. I love it.”

  Her smile mirrored my own, her cheeks pink from the fresh air. “It was great fun, especially knowing you didn’t have a clue.”

  “I didn’t. Adam is full of surprises.” I told her about his brothers’ change in plans and his nervousness.

  “Twins are like that sometimes,” she said. “Bonded in the womb and all that. Sounds like Adam always felt left out, until he found Tanner.”

  “Tanner says they saved each other.”

  “It’s only for a few days,” she said. “They can’t get too wild. Besides, they are going to love you.”

  We hugged and I watched her waddle across the street, feeling like the luckiest little sister on the planet.

  Monday’s sales had been surprisingly good, so when Tracy and Lou Mary arrived, we restocked and crossed our fingers. Heidi says in the kitchen shop at Christmas, people take more time early in the month. Later, they spend less time and more money, especially the men.

  “Hey, you two. Help me puzzle this out.” I showed my staff the bag Adam and I had found outside the back door, with the soap and lotion, cash, and note.

  Tracy read it twice. “Now that’s a first.”

  Lou Mary pondered. “Someone who walks around with a pocketful of one-dollar bills. A waitress, maybe?”

  “Yeah. Or a busser—she’s young. Lives at home,” Tracy said.

  “Ask at the restaurants,” Lou Mary suggested.

  “Good idea,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, By the way, the cookies from your party are divine, but I’m surprised you didn’t make biscotti.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just because I’m half Italian, everyone thinks I have to make biscotti.”

  I spent the rest of the morning in the basement, packing orders for shipping. My brother-in-law, Jason, had set up our online store last winter, with help from Luci the Splash Artist, a talented graphic designer as well as a soap maker. Since the online store had gone live, orders had steadily grown. To my surprise, in-store orders increased, too. Customers were willing to pay for the convenience of a wrap-and-ship purchase, and let me stand in line at the post office instead of them.

  But my after-school shipping clerk had graduated, and I hadn’t found a new one.

  Back on the main floor, Tracy was taking advantage of a brief lull to make up more gift baskets. My idea, and a brilliant one, I don’t mind saying.

  I headed up to the office. Catalogs from our suppliers were flooding in—online and in the mail—and half a dozen sales reps had called to talk up their products and special offers. It made sense to order now, when stocks were high and prices low. Estimating how many tea tins or labels we’d need in the next six months wasn’t rocket science. How many compostable plastic forks and how many picnic baskets. You figure out what you’ve sold, estimate sales growth, and bite the bullet.

  But that takes time. Not to mention I had a Christmas season to get through, a family of future in-laws to prepare for, and a wedding to put on.

  That called for truffles. Fortunately, we keep a box of rejects in the office and I plucked out one with an illegible swirl. Raspberry or cherry?

  “Mmm. Green tea.”

  That reminded me that Merrily had bought a box of truffles on Saturday, and my throat tightened.

  Dang, dang, dang. I really thought we could become friends. You can never have too many. Even in your hometown.

  I wiped away the tear forming in my left eye, and focused on my supply inventory. And because my mind jumps around, I thought about the Building Supply and the light bulb sale, then my conversation with the cashier. She’d said she and Merrily counted the till together every morning. Putting two employees on the job is an excellent safeguard. Whether Greg had started the practice when he hired Merrily or before didn’t matter, but I wondered what other protections he might have put in place.

  Like having two employees prepare the deposit. The cashier said Merrily and Cary had finished it up before Merrily took it to the bank, and Cary had said something similar yesterday.

  Maybe the bank did have an internal problem. I’d heard about a credit union manager in another town who’d thrown her bosses off for years, whiting out the actual cash-on-hand figure and writing in a higher amount so the totals would balance.

  Too bad the crooks among us can’t put their ingenuity to use making the world a better place.

  But what I couldn’t see was how the coverup of embezzlement inside the bank could be connected to Merrily’s murder. Or how it might explain the cash in the cigar box.

  Humans. When they baffle you, reach for chocolate.

  Ten

  ’Tis the season,” Rosemary said. I stacked my last load of packages on the post office counter.

  “I keep telling customers: Get your orders in by the fifteenth if you want delivery by Christmas. But you know there will be stragglers.”

  “Yeah.” She laughed. “And I’ll be one of them.”

  I didn’t even want to think about Christmas presents. And so far, I hadn’t. Would anybody mind if a Christmas bride skipped that part?

  And wedding favors. Boxes of truffles would be perfect. Bingo! If I ever had time to put them together.

  “Shame about Merrily Thornton.” Rosemary rested her hands on the plastic tub of Merc packages. “She came in every morning to pick up the Building Supply’s mail and every afternoon to make the drop off. That girl worked hard.”

  Mail. Truffles. “Did you see her Saturday? She bought a box of truffles to slip into a package, and I’d assumed she meant a Christmas gift, but if she was mailing a box …”

  “Saturday? I was off.” Another clerk in a blue postal blouse, a navy turtleneck underneath, came into view, and Rosemary relayed my question.

  “Yes,” the other woman said. “She was sending a care package to her daughter—goodies before finals. She sent that girl a box or a card every week. Texts and emails are great, but there’s nothing like good, old-fashioned mail.”

  “Nothing like,” we all agreed.

  “Do you remember Ashley’s last name? I’d like to send her a note. Merrily must have come straight here from my shop.”

  The clerk opened her window and gestured to the man behind me in line. “Hansen, Johnson … Ten thirty, quarter to eleven? We open at ten and the early customers had come and gone, but the noon rush hadn’t started yet. Larson, that’s it.”

  Every business has its rhythms. “Thanks, both of you. See you soon.”

  Ashley Larson, Jesse Hall, UM. Who needs fancy databases or the victim’s personnel records? Small-town talk gave me all the info I needed to fin
d Merrily’s daughter. Now what? I would send a condolence note. What else did knowing the girl’s name and whereabouts tell me?

  Nothing. But learning that her mother sent her a card or a package every week—that was not a woman who would risk a return ticket to prison for a few hundred dollars squirreled away in a cigar box.

  I turned the key in the Subaru and cranked up the heater. Grabbed my iPad from my bag. Not many people know you can create a timeline with a simple Excel template. I’d discovered the tool while planning product launches at SavClub, a hair-pulling task.

  Merrily had left the Building Supply around nine, dropped off the bank deposit, then driven down to the village. Where had she parked? Across the bridge at the south end, I guessed—the direction she’d gone when she left the Merc. Her purchase had been the first sale of the day, and the iPad would tell me the precise time, but it didn’t matter. I just needed a general idea of where she’d been over the weekend.

  I knew where she hadn’t been Sunday afternoon—my house. Had the killer struck then? Too soon to say. Too many variables. Maybe a simple change of heart about attending the cookie exchange, as my sister had surmised. But I didn’t think so.

  I tucked the tablet away and put the car in gear.

  At the cookie exchange, Molly had said Merrily lived up the street from her. As the newest member of the Jewel Bay Realty team (“Call us for a real gem!”), Molly came in early and worked late. Typical Murphy workaholic ways, though I had to admit, much as I love selling things, a career in real estate sounded like a bad dream to me.

  But my cousin loves it. And she loves double mochas. On my way to her office, I detoured toward Le Panier. As my hand hit the doorknob, I recognized the woman on the other side, struggling with a tray full of coffee cups, a bag of pastries sitting precariously on top. I held the door for Pamela Barber then grabbed the bag of pastries and followed her to her car. Opened the passenger door and waited while she settled the coffee safely on the floor and took the bag.

  “Thanks, Erin. We’ve got more visitors from headquarters this morning, so I’m buttering them up with lattes and croissants.”

  “A yummy plan,” I said. “Still tracing that short deposit? The one that may or may not be from the Building Supply?”

  “You know I can’t talk details, but nothing slips past you. Let’s say there are a number of possibilities.” Her expression turned somber. “I don’t blame you for thinking what you’re thinking, Erin. But I made the best of my second chance. Please believe that.”

  I did. What I knew about Pamela Barber’s past wasn’t common knowledge, but I had no reason to doubt she’d trod an honest path every day since. I wished her good luck.

  No sign of Wendy in the bakery. Michelle took my order for a double mocha and a double skinny latte. A single mother of two who makes the Energizer Bunny look like he’s sleepwalking, she’d started working full-time at Monte Verde Winery since last summer’s events. But she worked here every morning pulling espresso shots and helped Max on catering jobs. She said she’d miss the activity in the village too much if she quit, but I suspected she appreciated the chance to earn extra dough at Christmas, for her kids.

  “Michelle, an odd thing happened the other day.” I told her about the bag and the note. As she listened, she lifted her brows in an I can relate gesture. “The dollar bills made us think of tips, and the note sounds like she’s a kid. You know all the restaurants and caterers. Any idea who it might be?”

  “No-o-o, but I’ll ask Max if it might be one of the bistro bussers. A kid who’s working but can’t buy presents may be paying for everything herself.”

  “And going without some of the basics. Like socks and decent underwear.” And nice soap.

  “Exactly. It’s a bigger problem in this town than people think. Let me ask around.”

  “Thanks.”

  Moments later, hot fragrant cups in hand, I paused in front of the Thorntons’ shop. Dark. Not even the tiny white lights around the display window glowed, and the twinkle in Father Christmas’s eyes seemed dulled.

  A few doors down, Molly accepted my offering gratefully. “What do you need this time, cuz?” She knew me well.

  “Nothing from your files.” I sat and took the first sip, more of a hint-of-foam-and-flavor-on-tongue than an actual taste, since the coffee was so hot. “Merrily lived near you. Do you know which house? And whether she was buying or renting?” Molly kept her finger on the pulse of real estate the way I focus on retail.

  “Oh, sure. She lives—lived—in Granny G’s old house. Renting, I’m sure. If that house ever comes on the market, I’ll snatch it up myself.”

  Gwendolyn Gottfried Taylor, who’d died last spring, had been known throughout Jewel Bay as Granny G. She’d been a powerhouse, a true family matriarch.

  Not to mention Greg and Wendy’s grandmother.

  Now I was more certain than ever of a hidden connection between Greg and Merrily. And more uncertain of Greg.

  “Any chance you saw Merrily between, say, eleven o’clock Saturday morning and noon Monday?”

  I could almost see the gears clicking and whirring in my young cousin’s brain. She’d been a big help last summer, untangling the ties between suspects and witnesses, and she wanted to be helpful again.

  Don’t we all?

  One freckled cheek scrunched up, one blue eye half closed. “Sorry. I didn’t see her. I didn’t see anybody hanging around the house. No strange cars on the road.”

  “No worries,” I said, though I had plenty.

  Molly held her mocha close to her face. “Erin, do you think her parents killed her? She’s been back here for months. Blowing up at her in public—that’s like, so not good ju-ju on Decorating Day.”

  On Decorating Day, we are all Elves in service of the Christmas spirit. Friends and strangers helped out together, and the work got done. But Taya, who adored Christmas and looked like an elf herself, had been spitting mad.

  Walt? He’d been sad. Protective—not of his daughter, but of his wife. What had he said? It’s best that you stay away.

  Best for whom? And why?

  I let out a long slow breath. “I have no idea.”

  ∞

  Back in the shop, I refilled the sample bowl of Jewel Bay Critter Crunch and made a fresh pot of Cowboy Roast. We were set for the afternoon customers.

  The sound of boots stomping off snow in the hall told me Tracy was back from her lunch break and vet visit.

  “Polka aced his checkup,” she announced, her round, pretty face aglow. “Dr. Muir couldn’t believe how big he is for six months.”

  “Holly’s back at work so soon?”

  “No. He Dr. Muir.” Miniature Dalmatians hung from Tracy’s ears, the closest thing to Harlequin Great Dane earrings she’d been able to find. “John—Jack.”

  “That’s so funny,” Lou Mary said. “When a person has exactly the right name for their job.”

  “An aptonym,” I said. “Like Candy Divine. Or Dave Barber.” Pamela’s ex, who is a barber. Or a pair of Pike Place Market merchants I’d shopped with in my Seattle days—Vinny the wine seller and Pepper who owns the Spice Shop.

  “He said Holly’s taking a couple of days off, to help her parents. I guess they’re pretty freaked out, despite disowning her.” Tracy snapped open a Diet Coke. “Merrily, I mean.”

  “That probably makes it worse,” Lou Mary said. “Now that she’s dead, there’s no chance of reconciliation.”

  “I got no sense they wanted that,” I said, picturing the elder Thorntons on Decorating Day and outside the schoolhouse, when they heard about their daughter’s death.

  “You never know what’s in someone’s heart,” Lou Mary said.

  Tracy took a long swig. “The clinic staff were pretty upset. Merrily worked there part-time for a few weeks before she got the full-time job at the Building Supply a couple of months ago. And she still did the clinic’s books. The receptionist was going nuts, trying to find someone new this time of year.”


  That took me by surprise. If Merrily did the books for her sister and brother-in-law’s veterinary clinic, then they must have been on good terms. And they trusted her.

  What did Walt and Taya think of that? Had they even known?

  “I guess her ex is on his way. From Billings,” Tracy continued. “Long drive.”

  Eight hours in winter, halfway across the state.

  “By the way,” Lou Mary said to me, “your favorite detective would like you to stop by the sheriff’s office.”

  I suspected she did not mean Kim Caldwell. I gave her a tired nod.

  Over lunch upstairs, I returned a few emails and updated our Facebook and Instagram pages, highlighting our newest and grooviest food and gifts. Always a balance, keeping the focus on food, and keeping it real. Selling truffles and caramel corn wasn’t enough. We had to be seen as a viable supplier of eggs and bacon and pasta, too. Fresh, local, and competitively priced. A challenge in this crazy climate, especially in winter, when I didn’t mind if more of our income came from pottery than pork. ’Twas the season for gifts—and the profit margin is higher.

  Thirty minutes later, I headed out.

  Granny G’s old house, where Merrily had lived, was a tidy bungalow on the Stage Road, the original road north out of Jewel Bay. In these days of space stations and hybrid cars, stagecoaches seem like figments of Western movie makers’ imaginations, but the valley is criss-crossed with roads named for long-ago stages. They remind me to slow down, and take the long view.

  The driveway hadn’t been plowed or the sidewalk shoveled. A set of footsteps, made by a large man in large boots, led to the side door and around to the front porch. A second set trailed them—also male, but in regular shoes, judging by the slip marks.