by Hillary Avis
“Nope, but there are doughnuts.”
J.W., who’d been hanging back slightly, suddenly bounced ahead. “Doughnuts?!”
We finally reached the arch that marked the entrance, but the gates were closed. The only part of the Nativity that was visible was a glowing star hung high above the center of the maze.
Cal Goodbody, the charismatic pastor who led the Church of the Everlasting, was stationed in front of the doors. I hardly recognized him without his usual natty suit-and-tie. Instead, he wore a long white robe and a crown of gold plastic leaves circling his head. When a few more family groups had joined ours, he pretended to read from the Styrofoam “tablet” he carried, his voice ringing out majestically.
“I am Caesar Augustus. I decree that all people in my kingdom must be counted. Each of you must return to your ancestral home in Bethlehem. The journey will be long, but follow the star”—he paused, turning to point at the star that hung above the parking lot—“and you will reach your destination.”
A little bit of a revisionist version of the Christmas story, but the eager throng of families—mine included—didn’t seem to care. Pastor Cal flung open the gate behind him and let the families in one at a time. When it was our turn, Izzy and J.W. tugged us forward.
We entered the maze, which was marked out by bales of straw that were stacked about five feet tall—low enough that adults could see over them to navigate, but the kids couldn’t. It wasn’t a true maze; there were no dead ends. It was more of a labyrinth, designed to take us on a journey through the Christmas story and act as a petting zoo at the same time.
Every so often, the path through the straw bales widened, and a scene with live actors told part of the tale: Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem on a donkey, for example. The three Wise Men making a longer journey to meet the Christ child with their camels. The shepherds marveling at the star that shone so bright in the sky as they watched their sheep. At each stop, the kids got to pet the animals.
I hung back to watch Izzy and J.W. enjoy the journey, exploring the maze and squealing when a new cute animal appeared around a bend. They even got to feed the camels a carrot, because Rusty was playing one of the Wise Men. By the time we got to the last stop, featuring real cows and a fake baby Jesus in the manger, they were exhausted.
“You said there would be doughnuts,” J.W. complained.
“Let me just get a picture to show your dad, and we can go inside.” Andrea tugged him over to stand next to Izzy in front of the final Nativity scene. She captured a few shots of them with her phone and then we all headed for the exit—or rather the entrance to the church basement, which was the only way out, a clever fundraising move.
Inside the basement, the crowd hummed pleasantly as folks bought refreshments from the Chamber of Commerce table and stopped by a collection box to drop in a donation to the church, too. Ruth spotted us at the end of the line and left her post to smuggle us a few doughnuts.
“But we didn’t pay yet,” Izzy protested, when Ruth handed one to her.
“Special treatment for special souls,” she said to Izzy. “Your nana can pay me later. Can you spare a minute, Leona?”
I left Andrea and the kids to eat their treats and followed her to a quiet corner of the church’s kitchen. “What’s up? Do you need a hand serving refreshments?”
“No, it’s not that.” Ruth gnawed her thumbnail and then sighed heavily. “I think Rusty might be in trouble. Eli came to talk to him this afternoon. Twice.”
My stomach dropped. One interview was standard. Two interviews meant Eli didn’t think Rusty was being truthful. “What happened? Did he change his story or something?”
Ruth shook her head. “He said the exact same thing he told us on the phone.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“She is.” Ruth’s eyes went to someone behind me. I turned and saw Joan walking toward the drinks table, where one of the church volunteers was serving some of my apple cider from a steaming crock pot. “Eli interviewed her, too, and she said that when she stopped to pick up the donated toys from the gas station, Homer didn’t answer the door. So Eli thinks—”
“That Rusty killed him?” I scoffed.
“Well, is there any other explanation?” Ruth shrugged helplessly. “He was alive when Rusty walked in and he wasn’t alive the next time someone saw him.”
“Did Joan actually see Homer? Or did she just knock and then leave?”
Ruth shrugged again. “I don’t think she saw him. If she did and he was dead, she would have called an ambulance, right? And she wouldn’t wait around for him to show up and play Santa. She would have let me know that he wasn’t coming.”
“Unless she thought he was just passed out or something,” I said thoughtfully. “Let’s go ask her what—”
“Ruth! We need more change!” one of the Knitwits called from the cash box table.
Ruth grimaced at me. “I gotta run.”
“Go, go,” I urged. “I’ll talk to Joan. I bet we can clear this all up.”
Ruth darted upstairs to get more change from the safe in Pastor Cal’s office, and I made a beeline for Joan where she was nibbling a doughnut and sipping spiced cider, admiring the ornaments on one of the church’s many Christmas trees. When I drew up beside her, she turned to me, gesturing with her doughnut at the yarn angel that hung at eye level, sending a shower of cinnamon-sugar over the branches beneath it. “I made that one.”
“It’s very cute,” I said politely.
“I’m teaching a workshop next fall if you want to learn how to make them.” She looked at me expectantly. When I didn’t jump at the chance to sign up for a craft class being held ten full months in the future, she turned her attention back to the tree.
“Can I ask—” I began.
“Crochet,” she said around her mouthful of doughnut. “It looks like knitting, but it’s crochet.”
“Actually, what I wanted to know was—”
“Twenty-five dollars. It’s a three-hour class, so it’s an excellent value.” She licked the sugar off her fingers and blew on the surface of her hot cider before taking a sip.
I grit my teeth. “I don’t want to make any angels. I wanted to ask—”
“We’ll also cover stars and snowmen if you prefer secular designs.” She tapped her chest, where a large star crocheted in glittery silver yarn acted as a brooch on her peacock-blue dress.
“Fine. Sign me up.” It was worth twenty-five bucks just to get her off the topic. She gave a satisfied nod, and I went on. “Let’s talk about when you picked up those donations from Wilds Gas and Go before the first Honeytree Holidays event.”
Joan froze, her mouth on the rim of her cider. She lowered the cup. “I didn’t pick up any donations there. I knocked, but there was no answer. I already told the sheriff all of this.”
“What’d you do when Homer didn’t come to the door?” I asked.
“I waited about five minutes. When he didn’t answer, I assumed he was already at the community center, so I left. I didn’t want to be late and disappoint the kids.”
“You didn’t look inside? You didn’t see him through the window or anything?”
She shook her head. “Didn’t see hide nor hair. Of course, I wish I had, now that we know he’d already passed on.”
“Or maybe he was just uninterested in talking to you?” Who could blame the guy, really—Joan was pretty insufferable, judging by the few conversations I’d had with her.
Joan flushed slightly, her hand holding her cider cup trembling. “I suppose so,” she said tightly. I guess I could have done a better job wording that suggestion. Oh, well. Maybe it’d get me out of that workshop I didn’t want to attend anyway.
“Great, thanks!” I said, already scanning the basement for Eli. Just because Joan hadn’t seen Homer alive didn’t mean he wasn’t alive. It just meant that he didn’t answer the door. There was absolutely no proof that Rusty had done anything to Homer.
I didn’t see Eli in
the refreshments area, so I stopped by where Andrea was supervising the kids while they colored pictures at a craft table. The Sunday school teachers had set it up to keep the kids busy so their parents could actually visit and stocked it with photocopied coloring sheets in a confusing mix of Care Bears and Bible stories.
“I’m going to go find Eli for a minute,” I said to her. “Sorry to run out on you again; I’ll be right back. If I’m not back here in ten minutes, coloring a picture of Funshine Bear turning water into wine, send me a mean text message.” Andrea giggled and nodded, and I headed up the stairs.
Chapter 19
The sanctuary upstairs was empty, save for the echoes of a few people who, like me, were on their way out of the church into the crisp, cold night. When I walked out onto the front steps, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The streetlamps in front of the building had been turned off, probably to throw the star above the Nativity into higher relief.
A few snowflakes tumbled lazily out of the sky, like an afterthought. Perfect timing; maybe the kids would wake up to a white Christmas tomorrow. A smile on my lips, I glanced toward the parking lot and spied Eli near the arched entrance, chatting with Pastor Cal. The throng of people entering the maze had dwindled to a mere few, which made sense; the basement was so packed, everyone must have already been through it at least once.
I walked over and joined them, rubbing my hands together to warm them up. No wonder it was snowing; the temperature felt like it’d dropped five degrees since we’d gone through the maze.
“Aren’t you freezing your toga off?” I asked Pastor Cal.
“Nope, I’ve got a pair of genuine Roman long johns on underneath the sheet,” Cal said, grinning as he adjusted his golden crown of leaves.
Eli chuckled. “You can warm me up, if you’re volunteering.” I let him pull me into his side and stuck my hand in the pocket of his jacket, shivering. He rubbed my shoulder, frowning. “We should get you back inside. See you later, Cal?”
Pastor Cal nodded and Eli led me back toward the front doors of the church. But before we got inside, I paused. I wanted to have this conversation somewhere quiet. “Wait. I have another favor to ask you. I know you have to do the whole criminal investigation thing the right way, and you already stretched it by letting Peterson have an extra day, but please, hear me out. I’m sorry I asked you to break the rules for me. And I’m sorry if it seems like I’m meddling in your case yet again.”
Eli paused. “It’s fine, Leona. You don’t need to apologize. I know you’re not trying to screw anything up.”
“Really?” I looked up at him. The glow from the star cast deep shadows over his face, setting his ridiculous bone structure and long eyelashes into relief. Could I really be so lucky that this man not only loved me, but was quick to forgive my sins?
“Truly.” He dropped a kiss on my forehead, and I could feel the resulting tingle spread over my entire scalp. “Now, what do you need?”
“Tell me you’re not going to arrest Rusty for Homer’s murder,” I begged.
The smile faded from Eli’s eyes. “I can’t promise you that. Right now, he’s in a bit of hot water. He admits that he saw Homer alive when he walked into that gas station, but whether or not the man was alive when he left is another matter. All we know for sure is that Homer was dead by the time Joan showed up.”
“No, we don’t know that! That’s what I came to say. He wasn’t necessarily dead, he just didn’t answer the door. When I talked to Joan—sorry, I had to—she told me that she didn’t even see him. Maybe he was just in the bathroom,” I added.
“I thought of that. Have a little faith in me, Leona,” Eli chided. “Think your theory through to the end. If Rusty didn’t kill Homer, who did? Nobody else went inside that building. Rusty is the only one who had motive and opportunity.”
I played the security tape in my head, backwards and forwards. Eli was right—the only other person who visited the station that morning besides Rusty and Joan was Ed, and Ed never entered the building. He’d just knocked on the door, filled up his propane tank, and left. Rusty was the only one who went inside.
Poor Ruth. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if my sibling were capable of something so terrible. It’s not that Rusty was an evil person. I’d grown up with him and knew him as a good guy, both hardworking and loyal. But he was also impulsive and emotional, which is why he’d gone to prison to begin with. Now that he was out, he was desperate to find a job and get back on his feet. When Homer canceled the interview, it must have sent Rusty over the edge. He’d grabbed a syringe, filled it with antifreeze, and—
“Wait, where’d Rusty get a needle?” I blurted out. Eli, who’d already started toward the basement stairs, turned back to look at me.
He sighed. “I don’t want to believe it, either, but it’s not like Homer stuck himself in the neck with a hypodermic full of antifreeze. Rusty must have had the needle in his pocket, and who knows where he got it.”
“He didn’t have pockets—he was wearing elf tights, remember? He didn’t have a bag either, not until he came out.”
“Maybe Peterson dropped a needle from his med kit when he was administering first aid,” Eli mused. “Rusty could have picked it up. A weapon of opportunity.”
I pulled him over to the side, away from the stairs to the basement, to let a family with three kids exit the church. I waited until they were outside the front doors and out of earshot to speak. “I don’t think so. That little case in Peterson’s med kit was zipped shut, and he had no reason to open it. He still intended it to be my motherclucking Christmas gift at that point. Plus, the case was packed full, right? Another syringe wouldn’t have fit in there. The syringe that killed Homer came from somewhere else.”
Eli sighed. “What you’re saying makes sense, but where does that leave us? All the current evidence points to Rusty, even if we don’t know exactly how he pulled it off. And before you say someone hid in the attic and dropped down to kill Homer, then waited until the first responders left before they exited the building, I already checked. I watched Ed’s tapes for twenty-four hours before and after Homer’s murder and nada. It had to be Rusty, even if we never know how he got the syringe.”
I gripped his forearm. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Eli! I know where the syringe came from. It’s right there on the security footage. I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection before.”
Eli shook his head, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “You know what, Leona? If you were anyone else, I’d write you off as a kooky—”
“Don’t say old lady,” I warned, holding up my finger.
“I was going to say ‘kooky chicken farmer,’” he said bemusedly. “As I was saying, If you were anyone else, I’d write you off, but I’ll be darned if you don’t have a nose for detective work.”
“A beak for detective work,” I corrected, ever the kooky chicken farmer. “Do you want to hear my theory or not?”
“Sure do.” He sat down in the nearest pew and patted the hard bench next to him. “I’m primed and ready for your confession.”
I ignored where he’d indicated and perched on his knee instead, earning myself a grin so wicked it made my ears burn. I leaned against his shoulder and whispered my version of the crime in his ear. When I was done, his eyes were wide and wondering.
“I think you might have cracked this one, Deputy Davis.” His words were joking, but his tone was dead serious. “As reluctant as I am to evict you from my lap, I have an arrest to make.”
I hopped up eagerly and followed on his heels as he hurried down the basement stairs.
Chapter 20
As soon as Joan saw Eli and I barreling toward her, she dropped her doughnut—it must have been her second or third—and dashed for the other door. She scrambled up the stairs toward the Nativity exit, pushing her way past the people leaving the maze.
Eli and I followed her as quickly as we could without causing a scene, squeezing through the knots of adults
chatting over their hot ciders and weaving carefully between clusters of children as they played on the floor or ran circles around their parents.
At the base of the stairs leading outside, I noticed Joan’s doughnut on the floor, the crumbs scattered in an arc behind it. It was the doughnut that had tipped me off. Joan had been so eager to eat it, even licking the sugar off her fingers, but when she stood in front of the North Pole sign at the community center, she’d been downright mean to the Girl Scout who offered her a tiny bit of fudge, snarling that she couldn’t have sugar due to her diabetes.
Then, at Knitty Gritty, she’d been gobbling the Knitwits’ cookies, and tonight she’d downed doughnuts like they were the cure for her crabbiness. There was only one explanation—Joan controlled her diabetes using insulin injections after she ate. On the day Homer died, she emptied her insulin syringe to deliver a fatal dose of antifreeze. That’s why she hadn’t eaten any fudge—or any other sweets—at the community center. She didn’t have the medication she needed to control her blood sugar because she’d already discarded it. But the following day, when we were wrapping presents for the Gifting Tree, she’d had her insulin available, just like she must have it today.
Moving against the tide of people exiting the Nativity, Eli and I made it to the top of the stairs just in time to see Joan’s peacock-blue dress disappear around the next bend in the straw maze.
“Stay behind me,” he warned, already breathing heavily as we passed the Virgin Mary. She clutched her baby-doll Jesus to her chest protectively, like it was the real Christ child, as we ran by. “Desperate people are dangerous people.”
For once, I listened to him. I couldn’t really beat him in a foot race, anyway. His legs were longer than mine and he was in ten times better shape. We passed the shepherds, who hardly seemed to notice the wrong-way chase. The sheep did, though, bleating plaintively. I skidded around the next sharp turn, nearly crashing into the stack of straw.
