"She's burning up with fever. Bet it's the flu." Pearl held her hand away from her sweatshirt. "I need to wash up. Don't want to get my goats sick with this. Looks ugly."
I moaned and rolled over, eyeing Casey's lean against the doorway. On a cold and wet December twenty-third, Casey wore a tank top, yoga pants, and flip-flops. In keeping with the season, the tank top read, "One of Santa's ho's." It was stretched over a rounded belly that didn't quite meet the top of the yoga pants.
"I'm sorry you're feeling so bad," said Casey. "But I don't want the baby sick, so I'm not coming in your room."
"You should go," I whimpered. "Let me die in peace."
"Who dies from the flu?" She rolled her eyes. Casey wasn't much of a history or science buff, but I could tell she was concerned. Enough that she'd brought Pearl to check on me. The sort-of step-grandparent we never wanted. "I made you chicken soup."
My parched mouth oozed drool, causing my stomach to roll. "No food talk. And stand still. You keep rockin', and it's making me nauseous."
"I'm not moving. I'll leave the soup in the—"
She backed into the kitchen until I returned from the bathroom. During that time, Pearl had stripped the bed, remade it, and placed an assortment of Gatorades on my nightstand.
Red, blue, and green. Christmasy. My stomach took another roll.
"Now then." Pearl placed a cool cloth on my head, tucked me into the hospital-cornered quilt, and squirted her hands with sanitizer. "What's all this about reporting a crime?"
I stared at my Snug the Coonhound painting above my bed. The last few hours were hazy. Snug was no help. He continued to undulate. "Ma'am?"
"Honey, you called the police. Beth Ann Simmons is filling in for Tamara and couldn't understand a word you said. Everyone knows you're sick, so they sent an ambulance over. Not an ambulance, really. That was needed with…well, never mind that. You don't need the details. The town is just a mess. And Line Creek has all their emergency people up on the interstate because of a pileup. Anyways, Sheriff Thompson sent June Peterson in her minivan in case you needed transport. But you didn't answer the door, so June went home. That's when she called Casey. Casey called your Grandpa Ed, and he sent me. Here we are."
"Good thing I'm not dying," I croaked. "I'd have to haunt June Peterson."
"Of course, you're not dying," said Pearl. "You just have the flu. Didn't you get a flu shot?"
"No, ma'am."
"Where's the sense the Lord gave you? Goodness knows I get a flu shot every year. I get one for the shingles, too. Now that's a disease you don't want to get."
I rolled, searching for a cool spot on my pillow. "I guess I'm lucky to only be dying from the flu then."
"Nonsense. Who dies from the flu? Now don't be calling 9-1-1 anymore. Leave the emergency responders to the real emergencies. You can call me. Or Casey, although she shouldn't come near you. I mean, look how she's dressed. Half her body is exposed to all sorts of germs not to mention the cold."
"I'm hotter than Hades, Pearl," said Casey. "I'd walk around in a bikini if I could get away with it in this town. I feel like I'm having a Kenmore electric range."
"She acts like she's the first person to ever experience pregnancy, I swear," whispered Pearl. "But still, she shouldn't risk it. Casey shouldn't be near this house. You don't even have a can of Lysol. People die from the flu, you know."
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
"Now I'm going to run to the store and get you some Lysol. Also, some Tylenol. Then I'm going to clean your bathroom. It's like you don't even know how to take care of yourself. You could have children by now, Cherry. And what will you do when those poor babies get sick without Lysol and Tylenol?"
I didn't have the energy to defend my mothering skills to imaginary sick children, so I lay back on the pillow and waited for her to leave. "Casey, you still here?"
She waddled into the doorway. "Yep."
"Did I really call 9-1-1?"
"Yep."
"Where's Luke?"
Her gaze circled the room and drifted down the hallway. "Busy. You know. Working."
"If I had called the sheriff's office, I know Luke would come. He said he'd check on me."
"With the weather and…and everything, the sheriff's office is hopping. It always is this time of year, you know that as well as anybody." Casey stroked her belly. "Just focus on resting and getting well. We'd all miss you if you couldn't come to Grandpa's on Christmas day. I'm making a turkey and—"
"No food." I rolled onto my back and panted. Snug panted with me. "I kind of remember calling 9-1-1 now."
Casey turned in the doorway to face me. "What'd you tell Ann? Uncle Will said it was gibberish. He's worried about you."
"I thought I saw—" I rubbed my head, slid to ease against the bedstead, and checked Mrs. Boyes's window. In the corner, reflected lights from the tree blinked. Her living room was dark, but I could see a glow in the back of the house. "I don't know what I saw. Mrs. Boyes next door. Remember her?" I pointed toward the window.
"Yeah, sure." Casey glanced in the direction of my point.
"I was watching her through the windows. You can see straight into her living room. She looked like a reindeer, but never mind that. I think the flu's messed my brain. She had a visitor. Santa."
"Santa?" Casey snorted. "He's got one more day until he shows."
"And I thought Mrs. Boyes and Santa were arguing. Except she was a reindeer. And then Santa left. But he came back and strangled her with the Christmas lights."
Hugging her belly, Casey doubled over with laughter.
"I know," I said. "I don't believe it either. But Casey, it looked as real as you. Except it was raining. And kind of blurry. And…I don't know what I saw."
"So, you reported it anyway." Casey rolled her eyes. "Only you would report a crime on her deathbed."
I slid under the covers. "I thought you said no one dies from the flu."
"Not healthy young folks like you."
"I'm not healthy," I whimpered. "I have the flu. And I feel like death."
"Better than Mrs. Boyes felt getting strangled by a reindeer." Casey snorted.
"Santa," I whispered. "She was the reindeer."
Casey crossed the room to peer out the window. "You want me to go check on her?"
I stared at Snug. He still made me dizzy. Maybe I shouldn't have painted the coon dog in cerise and tangerine and stuck to browns. I swung my gaze to Casey. "Yes, I guess I do."
"You got any cookies to bring her? I need to have some reason to knock other than asking her if Santa visited early."
I double blinked at the word cookies and felt my stomach bubble into my throat. I rolled onto my side, slid out of bed, and crept to the bathroom.
"Never mind," called Casey. "I'll see you in a minute."
* * *
When I returned from the bathroom, the room was empty and dark. I turned on the light, crept back into bed, and huddled beneath the heavy quilt. My eyes crept to the window. Mrs. Boyes's overhead living room light flashed on. Remembering Casey's mission, I forced myself to sit up and focus.
A man was crossing through the living room from the back hall. He wore a white t-shirt. No Santa suit. I sighed and rested my chin on my knees. The man opened the front door, and after a long pause, Casey shuffled into the living room. She'd pulled a knit hat over her long, dark hair and covered up with a jacket, but left it hanging open. She glanced around the living room as she talked. The man waved at the back hall entrance.
After a moment, Casey nodded. She spoke, then waved to the window.
The man turned toward the window and also waved.
Realizing my lights were now on, I held up a hand and let it drop.
Casey turned toward the hall once more, spoke, then exited the house.
As the front door shut behind her, the man in the white t-shirt sauntered to the window facing my bedroom. Placing his hands on his hips, he stared for a moment. Covering his eyes, he leaned against the pan
e. He was older. Gray seasoned his thick hair and beard, maybe giving my flu-addled brain the impression of Santa. He didn't have Santa's build, though. With his arm flexed, his forearms and shoulders bulged. No bowl full of jelly either.
The man squinted through the dark. Might've met my eyes, although it was difficult to tell through the rain and gloom filling the small space between our houses. Not-Santa grinned and waved once more.
His grin showed in his teeth but not in his narrowed eyes. Definitely not Santa.
I shivered and slunk lower into my quilt. Reached for my sketchbook and a pencil on the nightstand. Then drew a quick sketch of the man in Mrs. Boyes’s living room.
Five
Maizie Albright
#OMGDidHeJustSay #PleaseComeHomeForChristmas
* * *
Red velvet waffles are difficult to eat in a car. I don't recommend it. Particularly with a plastic spork and mittens. However, the hot coffee did the trick. I revived. Damp instead of drenched. Tiffany's car had smelled like wet boots and pine tree freshener, but now the wet pine boots had mixed with sweet waffles and coffee.
Wet pine coffee waffles. A definite improvement.
I sat across the street from Martha Mae's semi-dark house, waiting for her return. Feeling moderately cheery about my stakeout. It was about time I did some real investigative work. Although this field experience — like my past fieldwork — was not on Nash Security Solutions's docket. I wasn't sure if it counted as real. One of these days — I hoped. Prayed. Wished — Nash and I would do for-real fieldwork together.
I took a minute to dream about those possibilities, leading me down an imaginary road (we weren't supposed to take) that involved a lot of heavy lip action between the blue-eyed PI and myself. I'd gotten a taste. Once. And it was sweeter than red velvet waffle. And that red velvet waffle had made my teeth itch. Unfortunately, the romantic detour Nash and I'd taken had been short. Brief. Temporary. Fleeting.
Unfortunately, I hadn't been the one who'd fled.
Although the memory was warming me up — silver lining there — I forced myself to stop thinking about Nash. The temperature was plummeting. And with the icy rain, I worried about Martha Mae out in this nasty weather. She was of hip-breaking age.
As I waited, vehicles pulled into the neighbors' drives. An old Firebird and a big truck stopped at the house I thought was abandoned. Two women exited the vehicles, hurried into the carport, and through a side door. The house blazed with light. Across the street, an old Cadillac pulled into the drive of a rambling Victorian. An older man disappeared into that house, and a string of blinking, colored lights lit up his porch. I sipped coffee and watched Martha Mae's house.
Nothing happened.
Except for more sleet. Wind. My waffle was gone (I had better luck using my hands). And I now had to pee.
But — I reminded myself — this was my dream job. I was investigating a missing person's case. An actual granddaughter. Who might be a felon. But she might also be a nun. Life was funny like that.
Sleet pelted the car. I sipped more coffee. Turned on the radio and sang along to "Baby It's Cold Outside" (both parts) while I watched the big truck leave the neighbor's house. Did my Marilyn imitation singing "Santa Baby" complete with shoulder shrugs in my imaginary mink.
"Have A Holly Jolly Christmas" came on. I took a coffee break. A phone rang. I jerked. Coffee missed my mouth and rained on my puffy coat. My phone. I'd almost forgotten.
I had given up my smartphone when I left California (mainly so my manager/mother couldn't find me). Nash had given me a burner phone. It was rarely used (unless my manager/mother was trying to find me.) But I loved the little flip that couldn't do anything but make calls and take grainy pictures. I checked the screen. Nash. I grinned.
Wait, a minute. Nash didn't know I had taken on Mrs. Fowler's case.
My hello was tentative at best.
"Where are you?" said Nash.
"Out of town? It's very seasonal here."
"And here is?"
"Not like seasonal snow," I continued, astutely avoiding his question. "But it's cold. And wet. So more seasonal than I was used to in California. But I can't say it's a white Christmas."
"I'm not asking for a weather report, Miss Albright. I'm asking for a location."
"I'm still in Georgia. Which is why the seasonal weather surprised me."
"Please don't tell me you drove your scooter out of town."
"Lucky's a dirt bike, but no. My thighs couldn't take that long of a drive. I borrowed Tiffany's car."
"Your thighs—" He cleared his throat. "How long of a drive? Where are you?"
"A little town called Halo."
A figure emerged from the neighbor's house and walked across the driveway. A woman wearing an unzipped jacket, flip-flops, and hat.
Who wears flip-flops in sleet? Was this sleet? Not really rain, not really ice, definitely not snow. I shivered.
"You're helping Mrs. Fowler," said Nash.
"I'm not taking her money. She already wired some to Krystal. I know you felt guilty about taking her money."
"So, you're helping her for free." He sighed. "Miss Albright."
"I know. Merry Christmas."
"Where did Mrs. Fowler send you?"
"To her sister, Martha Mae's, house. Krystal had asked about her. I thought it'd be helpful for me to come down here and see if Krystal shows."
"And did she?"
"Not yet. I don't think."
"Are you with Martha Mae right now? Did you talk to her?"
"Not exactly. Martha Mae's not home yet. I'm waiting." I bounced on the seat. "I'm keeping surveillance on her house. And since we're speaking of surveillance, you know mentor to mentee…am I a mentee? That doesn't sound right. Mentoree? Anyway, how many coffee breaks do you usually take when on a stakeout?"
His second sigh was longer. And very audible.
"Miss Albright, come home. And please drive carefully. The weather is supposed to get worse."
"What if Krystal shows up?"
"Krystal Fowler was arrested three days ago. She's not going to show."
"Oh." Why did I find that disappointing? I had really hoped she'd become a nun.
But hold on. "Wait a minute," I said. "That means you've been looking at arrest records. You're also helping Mrs. Fowler. For free."
"Merry Christmas."
"Busted." My heart flip-flopped. Nash was no Grinch. I knew it all along. "Why were you looking for me anyway?"
"I wanted to—" He was silent for a moment.
I gave him the moment. Across the street, the woman in flip-flops, looking very pregnant — What was she thinking? She could slip and fall in flip-flops. Plus weren't wet, cold feet bad for your health? I shouldn't judge. But here I was judging — had marched from the neighbor's house to Martha Mae's. In the sleet.
I almost leaned out my window to tell the semi-barefoot, pregnant woman that Martha Mae wasn't home and to warm her feet back inside her house.
But Martha Mae's living room lit up. The door opened for the pregnant woman.
Shizzles, I thought. I should have rung again instead of assuming Martha Mae wasn't home. Where was my common sense? I studied the parked car, trying to understand how I missed her. Hells. Had the Buick moved? I couldn't tell.
An older man had opened Martha Mae's door. The pregnant woman went inside. Scooting closer to the front windshield, I craned my neck to watch them through Martha Mae's living room window. My vantage point in Tiffany's car made it almost impossible to see anything. Two shapes backlit by blinking Christmas tree lights.
Who was the man? Mrs. Fowler's had said Martha Mae's husband had died. Martha Mae didn't have children. Was he home when I rang? If he was, why wouldn't he answer for me? Because I wasn't from Halo?
This town was a little odd.
"And anyway…"
Craptastic, Nash had been speaking and I had forgotten to listen. I could usually multi-task. Why didn't I tune in for Nash of all people?
"It's Christmas," he continued. "So, I thought it'd be nice."
"Oh." My eyes flicked back to Martha Mae's house. What was nice? Christmas?
"If you don't want to because of our situation, I understand," said Nash. "Did you already make Christmas Eve plans with Mowry? Or someone else?"
Wait, what?
"Plans?" Plans sounded like a date. Did Nash ask me out on a date when I wasn't listening? How could I have stopped listening? But he said no dating until our two-year apprenticeship was up. And he didn't actually use the word "dating." Maybe there was a Christmas loophole. What a time to focus on work instead of my love life.
Shizzles, that's not what I meant.
I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words that wouldn't make me sound like a desperate nut job.
"I'll let you think about it," said Nash.
And lost my opportunity.
"Call me when you get back. Drive safe."
He'd hung up. I stared at the phone. Switched to Martha Mae's house. The pregnant woman was leaving, walking back across Martha Mae's yard. Should I call Nash back? Drive home?
But who was the man in Martha Mae's house? It'd only take a moment to find out. Maybe he would know if Krystal had called or talked to Martha Mae. But wait, she'd been arrested three days ago. When did Mrs. Fowler talk to her?
Before she was arrested? If so, must've been just before. So, no way Krystal had contacted Martha Mae. Unless… Did Nash check to see if Krystal had gotten out on bail? When I'd been arrested (Fiancé-Accessory Before the Fact), I'd only been in jail for a day before my initial appearance with the judge. She could have posted bail. We didn't know anything about Krystal.
Although I no longer believed she could be a nun.
Best to not assume anything, I thought. Just in case. Look what happened when I assumed Martha Mae wasn't home. A man had been there. Maybe he was a house sitter. And what if Krystal does get out on bail? I should probably warn Martha Mae that Krystal had been interested in her health.
In answer to my good Samaritanism, the sky opened. The icy drizzle turned into a downpour. I crawled into the backseat of Tiffany's car where she had a variety of miscellaneous goods. I flipped through the debris. Tampons. Mascara. Lotion. Nail polish. Hallelujah, an umbrella. Cracking open the door, I shoved the umbrella toward the sky and opened it. Three spokes were bent, but a half-working umbrella was better than none.
Crimes Most Merry and Albright Page 3
