Periodically, Dinah wondered how loudly she’d be able to scream in an emergency or assault. She'd even practiced several times. In the actual situation, her throat closed and nothing came out but a squeak. The grip loosened, but only marginally. A light dazzled her eyes.
“Dinah? What’s going on? What did you do to my plywood?” Mick said from behind the dazzling light. Dinah ducked beneath the beam.
“What is that? 300 watts? Because I think I’m blind.”
He dropped her arm and directed the light away from her face. “Sorry. But you still aren’t telling what you did here.” The accusation remained in his voice.
“You think I pried off that board and tossed it onto the bushes? Where it smashed several irreplaceable bulbs?”
He directed the flashlight to the discarded sheet of wood. “No. Of course not. But can you blame me for wondering?”
“Of course not. I’m a reasonable woman.” She ignored his snort. “I stopped because all the lights were out, but I could tell the broken window wasn’t boarded up. At least that’s what I thought until I stepped onto the porch.”
“That was the act of an unreasonable woman. Whoever did this damage could still be in there.”
“Naturally! I was going to sit in the car and call—somebody. But before I could, you mauled me.”
He cut off mid-snort. “Did I really hurt you?”
“Not in the long-term sense of the word. I suppose we should call the police?”
He grimaced. “First I want to check if anything is missing. A police visit twice in one day will make Grandmother and her friends feel like social pariahs.” The jingling of keys accompanied his words. “Wait in your car ’til I’m sure there isn’t anyone here.” He pushed into the house.
Dinah, guessing anyone inside would beat a hasty exit after their elephantine noise on the porch, followed him. Mick glowered at her, seemed about to protest, but instead shook his head. “You get attacked by a lunatic, I’m telling everyone it’s your own stubborn fault.”
“Did your grandmother keep anything of value in here? I mean other than antiques. Jewelry or important papers? An old coin collection? Anything attractive to a pragmatic thief?”
“You mean as opposed to a sentimental thief? Who else would want this?”
“A collector! Me!”
“I thought we ruled you out.” They'd been working their way through the living room. Nothing appeared touched. “You can probably tell I’m not a fan of vintage stuff. You’re right. Plenty of things here might be profitable to an antiques dealer. But most of it is too heavy to carry out the front door. Someone would be bound to notice. The back door is too narrow. And before this morning, I would have told you Grandmother kept everything personal either with her or distributed to her children. But that surprise in the attic has me wondering.”
They checked the kitchen next. Stacks of china gleamed on the table. Dinah recognized the geometric silver design on a white background.
“My grandmother has the same pattern,” she observed. “I’ll bet my grandparents and yours married about the same time.”
Mick seemed disinclined to discuss china patterns. He checked the cellar and back porch and, with a grunt, headed to the hall. Dinah examined a wooden dish rack filled with glowing blue and white plates. She squealed. Mick spun on his heel and grasped her arm. “What?”
She shook him off and approached the rack reverently. “Royal Copenhagen Christmas plates. Oh, Mickey.” She counted quickly. “There are ten here. All different. Good Lord.” She meant it. “From 1912 to 1938.”
“Math not exactly your thing? That’s more than ten years.”
Even Mick couldn’t ruin her delight. “It’s a pity so many years are missing. But aren’t these lovely? Are they your grandmother’s?”
“No clue. Are they worth much?”
“Absolutely! The makers would throw the mold away every year.”
“So you not only automatically recall that bit of trivia, and the maker’s name, you can tell the year at a glance.”
She laughed. “So could you. It’s written right on the plate. Look at this first one. No I’m not going to hand it to you. Come closer. See?”
Remarkably, Mick’s scowl softened as he studied the plate depicting an elderly couple, hands clasped, gazing at a small candlelit Christmas tree. “Sort of sweet. Even though the Wagners aren’t big on holidays.” Cautiously, without touching, he looked at the rest of the plates. “They’re all different, aren’t they?”
She continued her silent, raptured contemplation of the ethereal porcelain.
“Dinah, how do you know so much about everything?”
Her hackles rose then flattened. Mick didn’t seem to want a confrontation. “I don’t. Math isn’t my thing. Or physics or chemistry. Hardly any astronomy.” How hard it was to defend her passion to know. “I’m not particularly intelligent. Just curious. I love to really discover what I’m interested in from the inside out. And so much is so interesting.” She forgot her discomfort in her passion. “It’s like creation and history and art are all God’s gifts, and I want to open every single one.”
Mick chuckled. “I take it you don’t think God created chemical reactions or mathematical equations.”
Dinah was saved from coming up with a reply when her phone rang out with “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Instantly she knew who it was.
“Mom! I am so sorry! Yes, I’m fine! No accident!” She waited as her mother released her pent-up concern in a scolding. “I don’t blame you for worrying. There was an incident at the Wagner House. Only a broken window.”
Mick raised brows at her sanitized version of the truth, and she made a face at him.
“No, I’m not alone. Mickey Wagner”—another exchange of grimaces—“is here, too. You remember him? Yes. That Mickey.” She smiled at him sweetly. “Anyway, I am really sorry. What? Um. I can ask.” Dinah moved the phone behind her back and hissed, “You don’t want to go eat leftovers and watch a Christmas movie with my folks, do you?”
With a smile to match hers in sweetness he said, “Nothing I’d like more.”
Dinah didn’t want Mickey Wagner and his superior mocking ways in her home but realized resistance was futile. His was the greedy aspect of a single man about to eat home cooking. He nailed the plywood over the window, thereby effectively destroying the crime scene. The detective story fan in her shuddered, but it was too late.
They turned on every light in the house and took Dinah’s car, leaving Mick’s in the driveway so the house wouldn’t appear deserted. Dinah’s mother served them warm chicken pot pie leftovers, and they ate in the family room on TV trays and watched the hero and heroine of the Christmas movie wrangle and argue with each other. While they ate the apple crisp and sipped Mrs. Braun’s special holiday blend of tea, they watched the couple fall in love.
Dinah waited all evening for either a snarky remark or overblown politeness from Mick, but he seemed to genuinely enjoy everything. During commercials, he chatted business and basketball with her father. It was made easier by their proximity. Mick sat on the sofa as directed by Dinah’s mother, and her father had plopped next to him, leaving his favorite armchair for Dinah. She was grateful they didn’t maneuver her into sitting next to Mick. But occasionally, she would catch his disconcerting gaze turned on her.
Dinah tried not to get absorbed into the movie. They all seemed to follow a similar story arc. But as happened every other time, she was sucked in and knew her mother would be blinking back the same tears she was. They were both pros at the subversive eye swipe and the gentle upward puffs of breath to dry any renegade droplets. As the credits rolled, she smiled hugely at her mother and turned to face likely jeers from the sofa.
Both men were asleep.
“No, seriously.” They were climbing into Dinah’s car as Mick’s protests increased in intensity if not volume. “I only missed the last minute or two. The blonde girl got together with the redhaired guy. And they bough
t the puppy and are going to run a rescue.”
“It was an auburn-haired woman and a man with black hair and dimples, and they’re adopting the runaway siblings.”
“Close enough. Blame your mom’s cooking. I did thank her for sending home some apple crisp, didn’t I?”
“Several times. Oh! I can’t believe I forgot! I found something interesting—” She’d rounded the corner toward the Wagner house and braked right in the middle of the road. Deja vu. All the lights were off.
9
Mick said a word that would never be uttered on one of those TV Christmas movies.
“No!” Dinah shouted as he fumbled for the passenger door. “Don’t do a superhero jump onto the street!” She squealed her tires—an unexpectedly satisfying action—and pulled into the driveway.
The plywood over the front window was intact, and they’d been wrong. A light burned in the back of the house.
“Stay here.” Mick growled. His dramatic exit attempt was foiled when he couldn’t open the door.
In her alarm, she’d forgotten auto lock was engaged. He glared at her, and Dinah shoved the car into park. After that glare, there was no way she would stay in the car, although she did maintain a discreet distance behind Mick as he jabbed a key into the lock. Not until he’d opened the door and reached inside to turn on the porch and hallway lights did she creep closer.
When he yelled into the house to “come out because they were surrounded,” she smothered a laugh. His courage, if not his originality, were almost admirable. Then he stepped backwards onto her feet.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “Get out!” There was some confused scuffling. Before they could back onto the porch, where they’d be able to make a quick escape should a lunatic charge, Helen stepped into the hall.
“Michael! Dinah!” Understandable astonishment was in her voice. She was working in the kitchen, she explained, with the doors closed, and thought she’d imagined noises and voices. “I started to wonder if the house is really haunted. I was so certain when the girls and I left before dinner that I’d shut off all the lights. But I came back and every light in the house was on!”
Dinah wondered why Helen had seen fit to turn off every light in the house, but thought it unseemly to bring this up. Mick explained about the break-in and Helen paled. “Oh, dear. I would like to sit down, please. Back in the kitchen.” Leaning on Mick’s arm, she walked slowly back down the hall. Helen didn’t argue when Dinah put water on for tea or when Mick brought an ottoman from the living room for her feet. “Forgive me acting like an old lady.” Her color was already better. “It’s been a day of surprises.”
Mick searched her face before laughing a bit too heartily. “EMTs this morning and thrill-seeking kids tonight. That’s who Dinah and I think tried to get in.” He smiled at Dinah, all wide-eyed innocence. “Right Dinah? Probably thought it would be easy to get the plywood off and come in for a little party. Unfortunately, they were right about the plywood. I’ve got it on more securely now. Probably did such a good job I’ll be kicking myself in the morning when I need to take it back down for the new window.”
Helen seemed eager to be convinced. “Yes, word gets around that no one lives here. I’m sure you’re right. Leaving the lights on is a clever idea. I worry about wasting the historical society money on electric bills. They’ll be high enough once all the Christmas lights and electric candles are lit.”
Dinah made ready the tea and glanced at the plate rack. Instead of the elderly couple from 1912, the front plate displayed a snowy landscape and the lettering around the rim proclaimed it to be “Jul 1915.” She couldn’t hold back a slight exclamation of surprise.
“That plate! It’s different.”
“Oh, yes.” Helen followed her gaze. “That’s why I came over. I wanted to finish them up tonight. Sometimes I like to work here alone,” she added, looking primly down at her lap. “The sisters are quite…exuberant at times.”
That wasn’t how Dinah would put it, but one could always tell when the Lister sisters were in a room. The air shimmered with bits of murmured locution and dropped syllables.
Helen twinkled up at Dinah. “Go into the dining room, dear, and see what we’ve done.”
The door between kitchen and dining room swung freely, and Dinah pushed the light on. A warm mahogany wainscoting covered the bottom two-thirds of the wall. Atop that ran a plate rail. Ten Christmas plates glowed against the mustard colored paint.
“Oh, Helen. It’s perfect! I didn’t realize Mrs. Wagner collected these, but of course, I know so little about her.”
Helen was slightly pink. “Oh, these are mine. My Ralph gave them to me as a wedding gift. Earlier he nailed a loose section of plate rail into place, and we decided these dishes would provide an appropriate touch. Your great-grandmother Mathilde was Danish,” she told Mick. “So Christmas plates made in Denmark seemed appropriate.”
He frowned. Dinah wondered why. Danish blood wasn’t particularly exotic, but the Danes were a strong and independent people with a splendid past. And the plates did look lovely.
Since Mick was disinclined to continue the conversation, Dinah compensated by gushing. She gushed over the plates with birds and the ones with shepherds and fishing boats and even the 1922 angel plate, no less charming even though it was chipped. “Do you still collect plates?”
“No. My last one is dated 1942.” Helen didn’t elaborate.
Ralph Konig was a remarkable man, Dinah thought. The plates were a unique and marvelous wedding gift for any woman.
She’d run out of gush, and Helen was so quiet as to be non-responsive. Mick roused himself and bared teeth in a miserable approximation of a smile. “The plates are very nice. Dinah can take photos and show Grandmother. She’ll be impressed. Shall I escort you home, Helen?”
Dinah gaped at this rudeness. Of course, it technically was Mick’s home, but he was practically shooing the dignified older woman out the door.
A knocking at the French doors leading from the dining room to the hallway startled them. Ralph Konig opened the door and smiled at them all. “I came to collect my bride.”
Helen’s poise had returned in spades. She told Ralph that Dinah and Mick fully approved of his wedding gift to her and asked how his bursitis was. Ralph told Dinah and Mick he was happy they liked the plates, which were the only gift he could think worthy of his beloved’s beauty. He rubbed his shoulder, acknowledged it was still painful, and with a wink, told them to enjoy their youth. Helen and Ralph clasped hands, said their good-byes, and left. They reminded Dinah of the couple on the 1912 Christmas plate.
Mick shut the door practically on their heels, faced Dinah, and put firm hands on her shoulders. “All right, what is it?”
“What is what?”
“You told me you found something interesting. About those ornaments? I’m telling you, they are freaking me out. No one has lived in this house except my family since it was built. Whoever put them up there must be a Wagner.”
His movie-star-type face was only inches from hers. Dinah’s mind went momentarily blank before common sense prevailed. “I think you have a more immediate problem. What do you plan to do about the break-in?”
Not until Mick took his hands off her shoulders did Dinah realize she hadn’t overmuch minded them being there.
“I plan to pretend it didn’t happen,” he said. “Or that it was kids. Or some reincarnated hobo from the thirties. What did you want to tell me?” He was annoyingly tenacious.
“First, don’t think the worst of your ancestors. The swastika ornaments could have been purchased before anyone understood how horrible the Third Reich really was.”
“Maybe. Some loyal Germans kept their heads in the sand. I guess it remains a mystery for now. So your interesting news isn’t about the ornaments?”
“No. I could show you, if I’d brought my camera and laptop.”
“Heaven forbid you travel light for dinner at your parents’ home.”
Sh
e laughed. “It’s something I noticed on my photos of the attic. One section is angled differently.”
“I didn’t quite catch that.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“So show me.” He headed toward the steps.
“Really?” The thought of going to the attic at night was exciting and a bit terrifying. “All right.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “But we’re going to do it to Christmas carols.”
“You’re serious.”
“Do you want to start with ‘O Holy Night’ or ‘Santa Baby?’”
He groaned. “Surprise me.”
The ladder was more of a surprise. Mick swore he’d put it in the back bedroom with all the other odds and ends after he’d boarded up the window.
“Maybe. But it’s back under the attic access now.”
“Either I’m losing my mind or those sweet little old ladies wanted to explore.” Mick scowled. “This is an old ladder. Hefty. No way could they carry it.”
Dinah studied the room. “You aren’t losing your mind. Somebody moved it. The door has a fresh gash in it, and there are drag lines on the rug. You and I carried it, remember?”
“So did I, when I put it away. Maybe my idea of kids or ghostly hoboes isn’t so far from the truth.”
Not until they were in the attic with the single bulb lit did Dinah turn on her Christmas playlist. To the smoky sound of Eartha Kitt singing “Santa Baby,” she pointed out the boards between two rafters that didn’t angle so much as they did everywhere else.
“I’m impressed,” he said. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to be subtle. I’d say sneaky.”
Stooped almost double, Mick shone his flashlight along the rest of the wall. Unlike the tightly fitted boards on this section, there were gaps in the boards between the other rafters. “Looks like there’s insulation in most of the attic. Mineral wool, not asbestos.”
Dinah hadn’t even thought to worry about asbestos and admitted it.
“You let me down, Ms. Braun. Let’s investigate this mystery. What do we have here? A knothole.” He shifted his feet, and something skittered along the floor.
Christmas Passed Page 5
