Free Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen by Vicki Delany

town to get into a panic.”
    I decided not to mention the puddle of vomit next to Nigel. Hopefully the autopsy would reveal that he’d died of natural causes and that would be the end of that.
    We began to walk toward Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. The street was full of cars and pedestrians. Shoppers browsed the gaily decorated windows and strolled in and out of shops. Most of them came out, I was pleased to see, carrying shopping bags. I saw more than a few with the logo of Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. The air was cold but the sun was warm and people had untied scarves, discarded gloves, and thrown open coats.
    â€œJackie told me where I could find you,” Alan said.
    Outside The Elves’ Lunch Box a waiter was setting up a sandwich board advertising the day’s specials. Fish tacos might not be traditional North Pole fare, but they did sound pretty good. “You were at the shop?”
    â€œI dropped off a box of those necklaces you ordered.”As well as toys, Alan crafted bowls, vases, and jewelry out of wood. I particularly loved his necklaces, as did my customers. He strung twelve to twenty-four highly polished wooden disks on a chain, each piece of wood getting progressively larger as the chain descended.
    â€œGreat. They’ve been very popular and we’re almost sold out. Is there a problem? You could have left them with Jackie. You know I pay on time.”
    â€œI know. I guess . . . well, I . . .”
    I yelped as a tiny ball of indignation leapt out of Rudolph’s Gift Nook. “Merry Wilkinson, I should have known you’d have something to do with this.” Betty Thatcher glared at me.
    She then glared at Alan. “Shouldn’t you be in your
workshop
, young man? Crafting exclusive
handmade
custom decorations?”
    If Betty didn’t like me for selling artisan things, she liked Alan even less for making them. He never seemed to mind. “Thanks for reminding me, Mrs. Thatcher, ma’am. Only twenty-three shopping days until Christmas. That’s a pretty sweater. It sure captures the mood of the season.”
    â€œWhy, thank you,” she said, softening a fraction. She wore a red fleece sweatshirt (only $29.99!) decorated with a picture of Rudolph (the deer, not the town), his flashing nose powered by a battery concealed on Betty’s person.
    â€œTalk to you later, Merry,” Alan said. He walked away in his slow, lazy fashion.
    He’d been about to say something to me when we’d been so rudely interrupted.
    I glared at Betty, and decided to make my escape as well. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fast enough. She plucked atmy arm. If a pack of well-dressed and obviously highly competitive shoppers hadn’t passed us at that very moment, I might have attempted to shake her off. But her grip would have made a professional wrestler proud, and I didn’t want to be observed knocking an apparently (appearances can be deceiving) frail woman to the ground.
    â€œWhat’s this I hear about that nice Mr. Pearce being found dead in the park?” Betty demanded.
    â€œSo they say.”
    â€œThey also say you found him. How do you explain that?”
    â€œI don’t have to explain that. But I will. I was walking my dog. My dog found him.”
    Her lip curled up. “That comes as no surprise to me. I’ve always said they’re filthy, disgusting beasts, dogs. Attracted by no end of rubbish.”
    Whether said rubbish was intended to mean a dead body or me, I didn’t know.
    â€œI couldn’t help but notice,” Betty went on, “that you were spending a lot of time with Mr. Pearce at the reception last night, Merry.”
    â€œI . . .”
    â€œAlmost smothering him with your demands for attention, it seemed to me. The poor man didn’t get much of a chance to talk to anyone else. Not between you and that mother of yours.” She gave me a supercilious smirk, waiting for me