Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen by Vicki Delany Page A

warm and strong and for a moment I wanted to melt into them and let him take all my problems away. “You take care too, Merry,” he whispered into my hair. “Hard to believe, but there is a killer out there.”
    He let me go and stepped back. His hazel eyes were dark and serious. “Call me if you need anything.” He hefted his camera and dashed across the street.
    Vicky turned to me with a grin. “Long hug.”
    â€œHe’s trying to be supportive. That’s nice of him.”
    â€œVery nice.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    â€œNothing. I have to get around to my dad’s office to go over what we’re going to do next. He had to clear his schedule first.”
    â€œDo you want me to come?”
    â€œThanks, sweetie, but no. You have your own business to attend to. Mine”—she cast a rueful look toward the closed, dark bakery—“is not in need of attending.”
    â€œTemporarily,” I said.
    â€œTemporarily.”
    We hugged, told each other not to worry, and went our separate ways. I walked back to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures deep in thought. Russ might be confident of Detective Simmonds’s abilities, but I was not. I thought the police had acted mighty hastily in closing Vicky’s bakery. Sure, I could see it if everyone at the party had come down with food poisoning. But one cookie? How anxious was Simmonds to make her mark in her new town anyway? Was she thesort to rush to judgment and then try to find the facts to fit her case?
    I wasn’t worried that Vicky would be charged with murdering Pearce. She had absolutely no reason to care about him one way or another. But, if she was forced to remain closed through the rest of the season and the reputation of her bakery was destroyed, it would just about kill her.
    I was closer to Vicky than to my own sisters. Always had been. She was fun-loving, impetuous, wild at times (that purple hair didn’t go over very well at the meetings of the Business Improvement Association, which was part of the reason she wore it like that), but her bakery meant everything to her and she’d worked darn hard to make it a success.
    I would do all that I could to make sure Vicky came out of this mess unscathed.
    Back at Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, Dad was rearranging the window displays. Gone was the assortment of jewelry, and in its place he’d put an arrangement of dinner plates, painted wineglasses, napkins, and tablecloths, all of which had a Christmas theme.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re doing, Dad? I left you here to help Jackie.”
    Jackie was behind the cash register, flicking through a fashion magazine.
    â€œJackie doesn’t seem to need any help,” he replied. “But you do. That window didn’t say ‘Christmas’ well enough.”
    â€œOf course it says Christmas! It says nothing but Christmas. It couldn’t say Christmas any louder if it went up to the top of the hill and screamed Christmas through a megaphone.”
    â€œChristmas is about family. Families getting togetherfor the holidays, sitting down to dinner at a time of love and peace. Christmas is about food. You might ask Vicky if she has some pies or tarts she isn’t going to use to add to the display.”
    â€œChristmas is also about presents, Dad. Jewelry makes nice presents. Men like to see jewelry displays. It means they don’t have to spend any time thinking about what to buy their wives.”
    â€œChristmas presents are for children,” said Santa Claus. “Not adults.”
    In that, Dad practiced what he preached. The moment I turned eighteen, I no longer got gifts from my parents or my siblings, nor was I expected to give any. The bottom of our tree was always piled high with gaily wrapped packages, but those were for the children of my parents’ friends (which meant just about everyone in Rudolph) who would drop by for Mom’s famous open house