Crimes Most Merry and Albright

by Larissa Reinhart

  I twisted hard, trying to rip the tape on the faucet. Worked my wrists back and forth, loosening and rolling the tape. The cool air bit into my bare legs. Chills ran up my back, and sweat poured off my temples. Too intent to stop, I ignored the pain in my shoulders and arms. The rolled band of tape reached the apex of the faucet's curve and slid off in a series of jerks.

  For a moment, I breathed in short puffs, then wiggled my hips through the circle of my arms. Brought them round, turned, and found the scissors. Poked them through the tape in my feet until I could rip them apart. Then scrambled out of the sink. And fell on the floor.

  With my wrists still bound, I used my fingers to pull off the tape from my mouth.

  Gasping, I looked up at Pearl. "How's that?"

  Her eyebrows shot up, then lowered. She nodded toward her taped hands.

  "I need you to hold the scissors as tight as you can, so I can rip the tape on my hands first."

  Pearl shrugged.

  I shoved the scissors between her fingers. She squeezed. I pushed my duct tape binds against the blades, sawing. She dropped the scissors. We tried again.

  I didn't want to worry Pearl, but my energy level was in serious trouble. If I were a video game, it'd be flashing red. The inside of my head felt like an ocean breaking on a shore. Black dots danced before my eyes. The room spun.

  The scissor blade pierced the tape. I ripped my wrists apart. Dropping to all fours, I ducked my head and panted. Above me, Pearl wiggled and grunted. Tried to kick me with her taped ankles.

  "Just a tic," I said. "Give me a second or I'm going to lose all the Gatorade you made me drink."

  Pearl stomped her feet. I cranked my head. She was staring at the door and grunting.

  Someone was in the bedroom.

  My wet pants were still taped to the sink. The cabinet mirror hung open. Miss Martha Mae's toiletries and medicines littered the floor.

  Pants-less, I crawled across the floor. Rose to shaky knees and locked the bathroom door. Leaned my back against the door.

  "One minute," I said to Pearl. And passed out.

  Twenty

  Maizie Albright

  #DoYouHearWhatIHear #YouDon’tWantToHearWhatIHear

  * * *

  Soon after the tiny, angry woman entered Martha Mae's home — If the day had gone differently, I might guess her to be an overlarge elf. Her coat had a deer head silhouette painted on the back. Ornaments hung from his antlers. — Jay exited.

  After trying Nash unsuccessfully, I hung up. My finger had pressed the numbers nine and one when the sound of a door closing sent shivers down my spine. After the last burst of noise, the eerie snick sounded foreboding. I snapped the phone shut and clutched it. From my squat against the side of the house, I peered around the corner.

  Jay stood on the porch, pulling his pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. His body faced the street, but his head moved. Scanning the neighborhood. As he looked to his right, I ducked back.

  Knowing where he likely headed — exactly where I crouched — I hauled butt toward the backyard.

  Oh God, I thought. I changed my mind. All I want for Christmas is peace on earth and let it begin with me.

  By keeping me alive.

  At the garden, I crouched behind the fence. Martha Mae's Christmas fairy lights brightened the garden, darkening the area I needed to see. And creating a nice glow on my hiding spot. I ripped the lights off the fence. Pulled them into a pile until I reached the battery box and switched them off.

  Where did Jay go?

  My heart pounded. Don't worry about Jay. She-Who-Could-Be-Krystal was in the house with the angry elf and the grandmothers doing who knows what.

  Call 9-1-1.

  I pulled the phone from my pocket. Nearby, the loud crash of breaking glass broke the stillness. The screech of an alarm jerked me out of my shocked, frozen state.

  The artist's house. She had trip-wired her bedroom window. And she was sick in bed. With a pregnant sister.

  Oh, my God.

  Yanking the string of lights off the ground, I ran for the house. The air conditioner blocked my ability to get close to the window. The window was broken. Pieces of shattered glass covered the unit. Under the glow of the Christmas lights, a man moved around the room. Jay. He flung bedding aside. No sick artist.

  Sick artist was the angry elf. But where was Casey? My stomach clenched. I glanced at my hand gripping the string of lights. Why did I bring lights? What was I going to do with this? Lasso him?

  I sucked in frigid air. Held it to keep from screaming.

  The overhead light blared on. Jay stood at the bedroom door. He rattled the knob, and another alarm shrieked. Leaping back, he stared at the door, then threw his body against it. A board that had been balanced above the lintel fell, raining jars and cans. Jay threw his hands over his head. Paint splashed and dripped.

  Jay was a multi-colored mess. And angry.

  Shiztastic. Where was Casey?

  "Open this door," he shouted. "Or I'm shooting the shit out of it. The police won't get here in time, so don't bother calling them again. That was your last mistake. You and your sister's nosiness was the first. You brought this on yourself by not minding your own business. Now I'm taking care of business."

  Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a pistol.

  I screamed.

  Jay spun, aiming the pistol at the window.

  I fell to the ground.

  A shot rang out. Followed by a second blast and the sound of broken glass.

  Twenty-One

  Cherry Tucker

  Pearl's muffled shouting woke me up. I blinked, noted my sprawl on the bathroom floor, and crawled to standing. Feeling like a bewildered prairie dog popped from his hole, I spun between the door to Pearl. Chose the door. I pressed my ear against the crack next to the jamb. The bedroom was quiet. I scuttled back to Pearl, ripped the tape off her mouth, then used the scissors to cut her free.

  "Lord, I've never been so glad that Martha Mae had one of those cushioned toilet seats." Pearl stood and stretched, rubbing her back.

  Not the first words I expected.

  "We need to get Mrs. Boyes out of here," I said. "And you."

  "Don't forget yourself," said Pearl. "You're not fit for saving anyone. You were laid out on that floor for five minutes."

  "You want me to tape you up again?" I glared at Pearl, then softened. "Sorry. Are you all right?"

  "My heart is still ticking, ain't it?" She glanced at Mrs. Boyes. "Don't know if I can say the same for Martha Mae. Lord, I've been praying she'll live. They just dumped here in the bathtub, can you believe it? What kind of folks dump old ladies in bathtubs?"

  "Bank robbers. I saw the nephew strangle her." I touched her cheek. "She's still alive, Pearl."

  "That girl said she did it."

  "Doesn't matter who did it, Mrs. Boyes needs an ambulance. You think we should lift her?" I turned to look at Pearl.

  She stared at the door. "That girl has a gun, Cherry. We need to stay put until the police arrive."

  "They've already been here and left again. The streets aren't good for anything but hockey. There's no rescue coming."

  Her knees gave way. She plopped on the toilet seat. The cushion hissed. "I've been locked in here all this time, and the sheriff's not coming for me?"

  "They didn't have probable cause to search. Krys told Deputy Fells she was you. He didn't know the difference." I swallowed. "And he was in a hurry to get back to the manhunt."

  "He should have known."

  "I'd told you something fishy was going on, and you didn't believe me."

  "You did no such thing. And you said Santa choked his reindeer, not bank robbers strangled poor Martha Mae."

  "It doesn't matter, Pearl. I'm your rescue." I placed my hands on my hips, urging my weak body to appear tough.

  A tear rolled down Pearl's cheek. "Well, if that doesn't just take the cake."

  "Stay in here." I felt too sorry for Pearl to be offended. "Keep the
door locked. Tend to Mrs. Boyes. Jam something between the door and frame to keep Krys from opening it. If it's me, I'll say so."

  "Maybe we need a secret word." Pearl sniffed. "If she can pretend to be me, that woman could pretend to be you."

  "Okay." I patted Pearl's shoulder, then pulled on my boots and coat. "How about 'Merry Christmas?' I doubt a bank robber would think of such a thing."

  I slowly opened the door, peering into the dark bedroom. Sidled out and closed the door. Behind me, I heard Pearl turning the lock. I needed a weapon. I glanced at my bare legs.

  Pants would also be helpful.

  Dresses and blouses filled her closet. I pulled open dresser drawers, yanking out clothes until I found something that resembled sweatpants. Four sizes too big. Yanked them on, stuffed them in my boots, and tied them with a strip of material I found in a basket on the floor.

  A wave of dizziness hit me hard. I sank to the floor. Heard footsteps in the hall, I slid under Mrs. Boyes's bed. Krys strode into the bedroom, eased up to the bathroom door, and listened.

  For once in your life, please keep your mouth shut, Pearl.

  Under the bed, dust bunnies threatened my nose. Krys wasn't moving from guard duty. I needed a distraction before she tried to open the door and find it locked. I didn't trust Pearl to stay quiet, the lock to hold, or Krys to not use her gun as a door opener.

  I backed out from under the bed on the other side and crawled into the hallway. Tiptoed into the kitchen. Set the microwave to thirty seconds. Took ten seconds considering a heavy fruitcake versus Martha Mae's block of knives. I'd have a better chance of taking out Krys with a fruitcake lob to the head than using a knife in a gunfight. For safekeeping, I tossed the knife block into the garbage.

  Twenty seconds. Dancing at the countdown, I looked left toward the garage door where I knew Martha Mae would have wicked gardening tools. Mrs. Boyes was a gardener. Kept me in tomatoes all summer. Glanced right and saw a shovel among all the debris on the screened-in porch.

  Looked wicked enough to me. And with a longer reach than a carving knife. Less risky than a fruitcake.

  The clock flashed ten. I scooted toward the porch, lugged open the sliding door, and hopped into the frigid night air. Grabbed the shovel. Scurried into the living room. Snatched the TV remote off the coffee table. Flattened against the wall next to the hall entrance.

  The microwave beeped long and strong. Three times.

  I gulped air. Three times.

  A moment later, I heard Krys pattering down the hall. At her "What the hell," I smacked the TV remote, raised the volume, and tossed it. Gripped the shovel and swung it over my shoulder.

  Across the living room, in matching blue headbands and rolled pants, Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye sang "Sisters."

  Krys's "What the hell" rang out again. Footsteps rang in the kitchen.

  My stomach tossed and churned. I tightened my grip and prayed for good aim. Also, not to vomit.

  A boot and the muzzle of her pistol appeared first. Taking a deep breath, I waited until she stepped into the room. Swung.

  And a shot cracked the air just as Bing slapped Danny with his fan.

  Twenty-Two

  Maizie Albright

  #HardCandyChristmas

  * * *

  Clutching my heart, I huddled on the ground next to the air conditioner unit. Across from me, Martha Mae's window had cracked, splintering into what looked like a giant snowflake. A center the size of a bullet hole. I looked up. Something blocked the artist's window. Rising slowly, I kept my back to the house and peeked. Jay stood with his back to the window. Pushed up against the broken frame.

  What had happened? I'd heard two shots. Jay had aimed at me.

  My legs shook. I blinked past the spots dancing before my eyes. Okay, don't think about Jay's gun. Think about the second shot. Because it hadn't sounded like the first. Muffled. But louder.

  "I know where you're standing," yelled a voice from inside. "I've had tactical training and I ain't shooting with birdshot. These slugs will go through more than one wall. You think this hole is big? Think about what it’ll do to a body. Get out of my house. Same way you came in."

  Casey. Holy shizolis. The pregnant sister had blown a hole through the drywall with her sister's shotgun.

  I had to stop the gun battle before someone was shot for real. A wall might slow a bullet, but it would still penetrate. She and her baby were at risk.

  "Do it now," urged my inner Julia Pinkerton. "Save the woman and child while you still have the element of surprise. Her shotgun blast has him stunned. He's ready to climb out the window. In a second, he'll turn around."

  All I had was a string of Christmas lights. I patted my pockets. And a candy cane.

  Craptastic.

  But if I wasn't so afraid of hurting someone, I'd be better armed.

  One end of the candy cane had been sucked to a sharp point. Yanking off my mittens, I tested it against my thumb. No blood, but it made a small hole just the same. My (ruined) puffy jacket had kept it safe.

  Time was of the essence, as they say. Julia Pinkerton had once stopped a would-be kidnapper with a homemade shiv made from a lipstick tube and a re-molded Jolly Rancher.

  Not the time to remember Julia Pinkerton wasn't real. Or that the writers were sometimes lazy.

  I sprung to my feet. Gripped the taped end of the candy cane in my fist. Flung the string of lights like a scarf around my neck. Climbed on the air conditioner, kicking off glass.

  Grasping Jay's paint-covered collar with my left hand, I jabbed the pointed end of the candy cane into the side of his neck. Sliced across his skin. Then pressed the point in the softer flesh in the hollow of his jaw, beneath his ear.

  Jay cursed. A jagged string of red dots crossed his neck. He clamped a hand over mine, letting go at the sound of the pump of the shotgun's slide.

  "Hold it there, bucko," said Casey. "I see you through the hole. That first shot was a warning. I've got your chest sighted."

  "I wouldn't move." Using my low, menacing Julia Pinkerton-on-the-prowl voice, I repeated the line from Julia Pinkerton: Teen Detective Season Eight, Episode Two. "Not unless you want to lose your carotid artery to my sweet blade."

  I pressed harder, puncturing the skin. Hoped he didn't notice the peppermint scent. "Only takes two minutes to bleed out. Now, drop your weapon. Hands in the air."

  "I'm going to kill you," said Jay. "Then I'm going to kill her."

  "Casey, I've got Jay by the throat. But don't let that stop you." I studied the hardening rainbow colors on his hair and clothes. Drywall dust blew through the air. "I don't think you want to mess with these girls, Jay. They take home defense seriously."

  "Drop your weapon, jackass," said Casey. "I've got the safety off. Maizie, y'all get out of the way. This shot will blow through him."

  Jay cursed. A thunk sounded near his feet.

  "He's unarmed, Maizie," yelled Casey. "I'm still covering you."

  "Hands behind your back, Jay," I said. "Casey, if he tries anything, shoot first. I'm tying him up."

  "This is not over," said Jay.

  "Sit on the ledge," I growled.

  White-knuckled with cold, I gripped the candy cane, matching the speed of my squat to Jay's sit. With my left hand, I yanked on the lights, pulling them off my neck. "Hands together. Cover me, Casey."

  He strung an interesting litany of obscenities together.

  Pocketing the candy cane, I blew on my hands and flexed my numb fingers. I wrapped the wired lighting around his wrists, yanked the wrists together, and wrapped them again. Pulling the string tight against his body, I wrapped his wrists to his torso. "If you move too much, the glass bulbs will break and cut your skin."

  "I hope it cuts him up good," said Casey. "I'm coming in the bedroom."

  In the distance, I heard a truck's rumble.

  "Casey," I hollered. "Someone's coming. Maybe the police."

  The bedroom door banged open. "Man, Cherry stuck that doorstop in tight. Wha
t a mess. Paint and glass everywhere." Casey stomped into the bedroom, swinging the shotgun before her. "That's Nik. I called him a while ago. As a Slavic, he knows how to drive on ice. And he's got friends with a salt truck. Don't know how they got one, but they do. It's better not to know."

  "You meet any Russians in prison, Jay?" I asked. "Her husband's Russian."

  "Russian-ish. So are his friends." She aimed the gun barrel at Jay. "They don't play around. You better hope the police come before they learn you were going to shoot me."

  "You got this, Casey?" I was a little worried about leaving Jay alone with her. For Jay's sake. Casey had the ferocious look of a mother bear protecting her cub. "I need to get to Martha Mae's. Find out what's going on over there."

  "Yes, ma'am. You want his gun?" She'd squatted to scoop up the pistol and used the bed to climb back to her feet.

  "Krystal had nothing to do with this," Jay spoke quickly, startling me. "It was all me."

  "Are you confessing?" I pulled my phone from my pocket. "I want this recorded."

  "Yep, I did it all. Krystal was just visiting her aunt."

  Over Jay's head, I locked eyes with Casey. She shrugged. Leaned against the nightstand. Repositioned the gun.

  "What exactly did you do?" I said. "For the record?"

  "Drove the getaway car for the bank robbery. I can name everyone involved. Give a guess as to where they went after they split."

  "You know where they took the cop?" said Casey sharply.

  He hesitated. "No."

  Casey pumped the shotgun's slide.

  "I can give you all that information if you let Krystal go. She had nothing to do with this," said Jay. "I've done time. I know when I've lost. I'm willing to go back. Just let her go."