A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (7 page)

“Are your parents here tonight, Dorrie?” Doddsworth asked.

“No,” Dorrie replied, clearly glad to have the subject changed. “Mumsy’s got a cold, so Daddy didn’t come.”

“Oh. Pity.”

“This is Lance.” Maxine pushed the handsome young man forward.

Lance, who had curly brown hair and a square jaw, and who looked like a football star, was as awkward as Dorrie when it came to introductions. “Pleasetameetya,” he mumbled, shaking hands.

“Likewise.” Doddsworth raised his eyebrows at his daughter. “You didn’t mention you had a young gentleman, Max.”

“Because I don’t.” Maxine smiled archly. “He’s
Dorrie’s
young gentleman. Aren’t you, Lance?”

Lance blushed splendidly, Dorrie batted at Maxine, and the three of them bounded off again in a torrent of giggles.

Becky Baldwin swept in with Dan Finley. Becky looked stunning in a strapless emerald evening gown with her hair up. Dan, in a suit and tie, seemed no more comfortable than he had in uniform. He looked like a little boy dressed up for church.

“Ah, there you are,” Becky crooned. “Chief Harper, would you tell your minion he doesn’t have to follow me into the john?”

Dan Finley’s mouth dropped open. “Why, I never,” he sputtered.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Chief Harper interposed. “Becky just likes to tease.”

“Becky would like to have a life,” Becky Baldwin snapped. “This constant surveillance is a drag.”

“You’re the actress who received the threatening missives?” Jonathon Doddsworth was leaning forward with interest.

Becky glanced at him. “I remember you. You’re the father of one of the girls. Went back to England, as I recall.”

“Jonathon Doddsworth, of Scotland Yard.”

Becky smiled. “Amazing you can say that with a straight face. Sounds right out of a PBS episode. No offense meant, of course. Listen, do you have any influence with the local cops? I’m being hounded to death, and it’s putting a real damper on the yuletide season.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Chief Harper said. “I know you feel these are useless precautions. But I had to see if the threat was real. It would appear that it is not. So, as of tomorrow, I am discontinuing police surveillance.”

“Well, that’s a relief. You mean I won’t have an armed guard in the stable?”

Chief Harper frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“The live Nativity. I’m playing the Virgin Mary. There are shepherds and wise men in the tableau, but I can’t recall any cops.”

“When is that?”

Becky jerked her thumb at Dan Finley. “If I tell you, do you promise not to send Kojak here? It’s tomorrow morning from eleven to twelve.” She turned to Sherry. “You’re twelve to one. Isn’t that nice? You can watch me, see how it’s done.”

“We had a rehearsal,” Sherry pointed out.

“Yes, but I wasn’t there. Isn’t that silly? They should have had someone show you who’s done it before. Don’t worry, you can take your cue from me.”

Sherry smiled, then pressed her lips together tightly.

Doddsworth raised his bushy eyebrows at Chief Harper. “You believe Miss Rebecca’s no longer in any peril?”

“I do.”

“I wish I shared your optimism.”

“I wish I had your experience. Would you care to drop by the station tomorrow, perhaps give me the benefit of your thoughts?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Cora Felton had to stifle a harrumph.
She
had not been invited to the police station.
She
had not been invited to share her thoughts. Not that she had any thoughts to share. Even so.

On the edge of the crowd, Sherry Carter sidled up to Aaron Grant. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I’ve hardly seen you.”

“Sorry. My parents’ parties are like that.”

“I was hoping to get a chance to talk to them.”

“Christmas parties are tough. They’re pretty busy.”

“So I see.”

Aaron lowered his voice. “Wanna see my room?”

“I’ve seen your room.”

“What’s your point?”

Sherry looked up at Aaron. He winked roguishly.

Sherry smiled. “Okay. Show me your room.”

10

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE COMING.” SHERRY WAS PILOTING the Toyota through the freshly fallen snow.

“And miss seeing you play the Virgin M? Surely you jest.”

“You can’t kid me, Cora. You’re on the trail of our secret stalker. You just want to see if anyone makes a move on Becky Baldwin.”

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

“I’ll bet it didn’t.” Sherry glanced at the dashboard clock. It read 11:36. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come an hour early to watch Becky set up.”

“Chief Harper said not to.”

Sherry frowned. “What?”

“Last night. While you were upstairs with Clark Kent. He told me if I was anywhere
near
that crèche when old Becky took her place, he’d run me in for disturbing the peace.”

“Why in the world would he do that?”

“You’re the genius here. Why do you think?”

Sherry blinked. “You mean he
doesn’t
think it’s a gag? And he
hasn’t
pulled his surveillance? He just said he did to set a trap?”

“Now you’re cookin’. If Harper’s right, you won’t have to be the Virgin Mary. By the time we get there our stalker will have made his move, Chief Harper will have him in cuffs, and the place will be a crime scene. Which would be an excellent result. I just hate to have to miss it.”

“Uh-huh,” Sherry said. “Does Mr. Scotland Yard have anything to do with your feelings?”

“The man is nice. And I gather he’s single.”

“The man lives in England,” Sherry pointed out. “Were you thinking of moving?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“I’ll bet. So that’s why you came along. To check out Becky Baldwin.”

“If Becky happens to be alive and well, that’s hardly my fault.”

“That’s a nice way to put it.”

Sherry drove down Main Street to the village green. There were no police cars in sight. Indeed, there were no cars of any kind.

“It would appear Becky’s still alive,” Sherry said.

“So it seems. Care to drive by and take a look?”

“Why?”

“You’re about to play the part. Surely you should check out the tableau. You might learn something.”

“I can play the part without Becky Baldwin’s help.” Sherry said it icily.

“Humor me.”

They circled the village green. As they drove by the stable, Cora said, “Stop.”

“We can’t stop here. We’ll block traffic.”

“What traffic? We’re the only car on the road.”

Sherry slowed the car to a stop in front of the stable. It was on the narrowest part of the green, facing the Congregational church. The snow was undisturbed, making the stable seem a magical place, suspended in time and space, dropped in the middle of the Bakerhaven green.

The magic was lost on Cora. She snorted derisively.

“What’s with you?” Sherry said.

“Look at Becky. She’s kneeling over, she’s got her hood down, you can’t even see her face.”

“Forgive me if I fail to share your disappointment.”

“After your whole catfight about Becky showing you what to do, you can’t even see her face, and if you pose like that, no one’s gonna see your face either.”

“I don’t recall any catfight. And I have no intention of posing like Becky. I didn’t even want to see this.”

“Yeah. I did. So where’s the fuzz?”

“What fuzz?”

“Exactly. If the cops are watching Becky, where are they? If Joseph’s undercover, I’ll cook you dinner. And no one else in the stable looks old enough.”

Sherry circled the village green again, pulled into the town hall parking lot.

“The church is closer,” Cora said. “How come they don’t change there?”

“They used to, until they got flak from the PTA.”

“Over what?”

“Associating the Nativity with organized religion.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not at all. The PC Nativity has no religious significance, offends no one, and is famous for miles around.”

“I’m way too old,” Cora declared.

They went up the steps and in the front door. The town hall was empty.

“Where’s the other actors?” Cora asked, looking around.

“Weren’t you paying attention during rehearsal? The replacements are staggered. So as not to have the whole tableau exit at once. Virgin Marys are on the hour. Josephs are a quarter after. Either the kings or shepherds come next.”

“That’s confusing.”

“Not if you’re a Virgin.”

Sherry went into the ladies’ room. A blue-and-white costume hung on a hanger on the side of one of the stalls. On the floor was a large shopping bag. Sherry sat on a folding chair, took off her blue jeans and sweater, put them in the bag. Underneath she wore a bodysuit of thermal underwear.

“That looks nice and toasty,” Cora observed.

“Easy for you to say. From what I hear, the actors all freeze no matter what they wear.”

Sherry slipped into the Virgin Mary robes. She sat back down and pulled on her boots.

“The Virgin Mary in army boots?” Cora said.

“You got a problem with that?” Sherry put on her coat, picked up the shopping bag with her clothes.

Sherry and Cora went out. A teenage boy in parka and wool hat passed them, going up the front steps.

“Joseph?” Cora asked Sherry.

“More than likely. I haven’t met them all.”

“Looks too young to shave.”

“They have a beard for him.”

“I doubt it helps.”

Cora and Sherry walked around to the back of the crèche, which was opposite the county courthouse.

“This is where we part company,” Sherry said. “Unless you figured out some variation where the great-aunt shows up to toast the Christ Child.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll go back to trying to spot policemen.”

“Probably a wise move.”

While Cora continued around the green, Sherry set off through the snow. The trail was easy to follow given the number of actors who had already been over it. As Sherry walked, she glanced at her watch, saw that she was five minutes early. But that couldn’t matter. It was a chilly morning. Becky would be relieved to see her.

Sherry climbed up on the back of the crèche, tugged off her boots, and put on her sandals. She stowed her clothes on the ledge, checked her watch one last time— five of twelve—before taking it off and dropping it in the bag. She shrugged off her coat, hung it on a nail on the shelf. Then she opened the back door a crack and peered out. There were no cars driving by, no one on foot, no one watching the scene. Time for the switch.

Sherry stepped out into the stable.

The Virgin Mary knelt in the hay, her arms cradling the Christ Child. She was leaning against Joseph, who was stoically holding her up, though the young face behind the long hair and beard looked distinctly pained. He’d be happy to stretch a muscle or two while they made the switch.

Sherry crept out, touched her on the shoulder. “Okay, Becky. I got it.”

Becky might not have heard her. She didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge Sherry in any way.

A car came into view, circling the green.

Sherry saw it and wanted to make the change before it drew alongside.

Sherry nudged Becky again, harder.

She still didn’t respond. Which was odd. It seemed inconceivable that she could have fallen asleep, but she must have. It was hard to tell, as the cowl of her robe had slipped down so Sherry couldn’t see her face.

Out of the corner of her eye Sherry could see the car coming their way.

“Becky!” Sherry hissed. With both hands she half lifted, half pulled her from her spot.

Carl Perkins, his wife, Nancy, and sons Randy and Jed, who had driven all the way from Greenwich to view the Bakerhaven Nativity, got far more than they had bargained for, as not one but two Virgin Marys, apparently vying for supremacy, tugged and pulled at one another, until one of the Virgin Marys spun from the other’s grasp and pitched headlong from the manger, landing in a broken, lifeless heap, while the other Virgin Mary gawked in horror, then fainted dead away.

11

SHERRY CARTER OPENED HER EYES TO FIND HER AUNT LOOKING down at her.

“So, you’ve decided to join us,” Cora said.

“What happened?” Sherry asked.

“You fainted. From shock. Perfectly normal, under the circumstances.”

“Is she dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What killed her?”

“I don’t know. And I’m dying to find out. But I had to make sure you’re all right.”

“Where am I?”

“Town hall. They would have taken you to the hospital, but the numbnuts doctor said you’re fine.”

Sherry sat up and discovered she was on a gurney in the town hall meeting room.

And dressed as the Virgin Mary.

“Where’s my clothes?”

“I’m afraid they’re at the crime scene.”

“Oh.”

On the other side of the room, Sam Brogan was questioning the actors, who were still in costume. They were all schoolkids, and seemed pretty shaken. Dorrie’s boyfriend, Lance, dressed as Joseph, appeared to be taking it particularly badly.

There was no other Mary.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Cora asked. “I may have influenced the doc a little ’cause I didn’t wanna have to follow you to the hospital.”

“Uh-huh. Is she . . . ?”

“Is she what?”

“Dead?”

“You already asked that. Maybe I should stick around a little. But, yes, she is. Dead as a doornail.”

“I guess that joker wasn’t kidding. It’s hard to believe.”

“Yeah. Look, if you’re sure you’re all right, I’d like to get out to the crèche. Harper’s there now, and Doddsworth’s on his way.”

“Go on. I’ll be fine.”

Left alone, Sherry realized she was still somewhat dizzy. She sat back on the gurney to catch her bearings.

On the other side of the room the interrogation of the actors continued. Sam Brogan seemed intent on his task, and no one paid the least bit of attention to her. Not that she needed it.

Still.

Sherry wished Aaron were there. Surely he’d be along soon, it being a murder.

And not just any murder.

Her
murder.

Becky’s murder.

Becky Baldwin.

Her rival.

Her nemesis.

The thorn in her side.

Never had Sherry been gripped with such conflicting emotions. Suddenly it seemed as if every obstacle to her happiness with Aaron Grant had been removed. But removed in such a way as to make happiness impossible. Could she ever look at Aaron again without feeling she had won by default? That but for the hand of fate, she might not have been so lucky?

Lucky.

Sherry shuddered.

Get a grip,
she scolded herself angrily. She was behaving like a child. A lovesick schoolgirl. A self-centered, self-obsessed, lovesick schoolgirl. Evaluating every action solely in terms of herself. How could she be so crass, so cruel, so—heartless? Becky was dead. Never mind what it meant to her. Becky Baldwin was dead. Murdered. Someone had killed her. As promised in the poems. The poems Sherry had dismissed as doggerel. Had ridiculed. Just as she’d ridiculed the police surveillance. Becky’s bodyguard, Dan Finley. Where had he been when this happened? And what kind of trouble was he in now?

As if on cue, Dan Finley banged in the door, glanced around, then strode over to where Sam Brogan was interrogating the actors. While Sherry watched, Dan pulled Sam aside, and the two conversed in low tones.

“So where’s Chief Harper?” an imperious voice demanded.

A familiar voice.

Sherry turned and looked.

Becky Baldwin stood in the doorway.