Christmas Sweets

by Joanne Fluke

  What about Corky? She had, after all, threatened to kill Scotty if he called her Porky one more time. Had she carried out her threat in a moment of insane rage? There was also Gigi, who’d been nursing a grudge against Scotty ever since high school. Was it true that all she planned to do was ditch him at the altar? Or had she upped the ante and decided to kill him instead?

  Finally, there was Ernie, the Cat Whisperer. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I overheard him saying to Molly that afternoon:

  I knew somehow, some way, I’d win you back.

  Had he found the way—with a snowflake ornament from his own Christmas tree?

  I laid there, pondering these questions, and whether or not I had the energy to get out of bed for a couple of Oreos.

  I opted to forgo the Oreos. (Alert the media.) As much as I wanted them, I simply didn’t have the strength to move. My days as a part-time, semi-professional P.I./Santa’s Elf had been draining, to say the least. Juggling murder suspects and kiddies on candy cane highs was exhausting work.

  So I turned off the TV and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Before long I was deep into nightmare territory, dreaming about a toddler stabbing Santa in the heart with a snowflake ornament while I stood by helpless, eating a Double Stuf Oreo.

  Suddenly I was jolted awake from this hellish vision by the sound of a deep male voice saying:

  “Stick ’em up, or I’ll shoot.”

  Omigod. It was Ernie! He was the killer! I should have known all along. There was something about his oily charm that screamed homicidal maniac. Besides, anyone who could get Prozac to sit still for the camera had clearly made a pact with the devil.

  I remembered those dockworker hands of his. Oh, Lord. Any minute now, they’d be pulling the trigger and blowing me to kingdom come! I peered into the darkness, but I saw no one. He had to be hiding somewhere.

  “I swear, Ernie,” I said, bolting up in bed, my hands high in the air. “Just because I saw the murder weapon in your studio doesn’t mean I think you killed Scotty to get him out of the way so you could get Molly back.

  “Honest,” I lied, “that’s the last thing on my mind!”

  But all I heard in reply was:

  “Stick ’em up, or I’ll shoot.”

  Whoa. It suddenly occurred to me that the guy didn’t have an Italian accent. So it couldn’t be Ernie. Then who the heck was it? Yikes! It was probably a burglar!

  “Look, I don’t have much,” I called out. “Just a gold locket from my parents, and a supposed diamond engagement ring from my ex-husband, the Blob, but knowing my ex-husband, I’m sure it’s just cubic zirconia. Oh, yes, and a darling pair of dangly earrings I bought on sale at Nordstrom for a Christmas party I’m going to on Tuesday. Old friend from high school, says he wants to reconnect.”

  I tend to babble when I’m nervous.

  “You can have everything,” I said, “including the twenty dollars in the Pringles can on top of the refrigerator. Just don’t hurt my cat.”

  I waited for what seemed like an eternity, my arms aching. It felt like I’d been holding them in the air for hours.

  Then I heard the voice again:

  “Stick ’em up, or I’ll shoot.”

  But this time it was accompanied by an extremely screechy: Awwwwwk!

  Oh, for crying out loud, it was Bogie, Lance’s silly parrot!

  I’d been taking care of him for the past few days, running myself ragged moving him from room to room, keeping him out of Prozac’s striking zone.

  Lance said he knew how to talk. Apparently “Stick ’em up, or I’ll shoot” was what he knew how to say. Picked up, no doubt, from one of the real Bogie’s early gangster movies.

  I turned on the light, and sure enough there were no intruders in my bedroom. Just me and Prozac.

  I clambered out of bed and hurried to the bathroom, where Bogie was happily awwking away.

  No wonder he’d been making such a racket; I’d forgotten to cover his cage.

  “Stick ’em up, or I’ll shoot,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Oh, Bogie,” I sighed. “Of all the duplexes in all the towns in all the world, why did you have to wind up in mine?”

  To which he just blinked his beady eyes and let loose with a fairly hefty poop.

  Guess he wasn’t much of a Casablanca fan.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lance came home from Newport early the next afternoon, and wasting no time, I hustled over to his apartment to return Bogie, lock, stock, and birdseed.

  “Was he much trouble?” Lance asked.

  “A lot, actually.”

  “Aw, thanks, hon. You’re a true friend. Greg and I will name our first parakeet after you.”

  Leaving Lance to his fantasy relationship, I headed off to Conspicuous Consumption.

  I was working the three to nine o’clock shift that day, which was a shame, since Jason’s party was that night. I’d tried to get Gigi to switch shifts with me, but she had an audition she had to go to, so I was stuck.

  I just hoped the party wouldn’t be over by the time I got there.

  Somehow the day crawled by. I led the kids up to see Santa, my head in the clouds, mentally mapping the shortest route to Jason’s house in the Hollywood Hills and deciding whether to wear my hair loose and flowing or swept back in an elegant updo.

  Finally eight o’clock rolled around. Just one more hour to go.

  Usually after eight o’clock, the line at Santa Land died down; most kids were home getting ready for bed. But wouldn’t you know, at eight thirty that night there was a line of kids snaking halfway down the mall.

  After about the 367th time Barnaby saw me checking my watch, he asked me what was up, and I told him about Jason’s party.

  “A Christmas party? With your old high school crush? Don’t just stand there, girl. Go!”

  “But I can’t leave you alone.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just have fun.”

  What a doll. I really had to remember to buy a toy for his Tiny Tim Project.

  “Santa’s elf,” he announced to the crowd, “has to go help Mrs. Claus wrap presents, so she’s going to say good night to you now.”

  I waved good-bye to the kids and, blowing Barnaby a kiss, raced off to grab my stuff from my locker. Then I hurried out to my car and roared out of the parking lot—only to be caught in the kind of hellish traffic that descends upon Los Angeles every year during Christmas party season.

  I inched home gritting my teeth and cursing, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

  By the time I got back to my apartment, it was after nine.

  Having silenced Prozac’s indignant howls with a bowl of Hearty Halibut Guts, I dashed into my bedroom where I threw on my new Eileen Fisher black velvet elastic-waist pants set. I was in such a hurry, I didn’t even bother taking off my striped elf tights, rolling them up at the ankles so they wouldn’t show under my pants.

  After slapping on some makeup, I took a quick pass at my bangs with the blow dryer. (So much for that glam updo.) Then I slipped on my dangly earrings, spritzed on some perf, and I was out the door.

  “Wish me luck,” I called out to Prozac.

  She gazed up from where she was sprawled on the sofa, belching hearty halibut fumes.

  Yeah, right. Whatever. Bring back leftovers.

  Wending my way over to the Hollywood Hills, “Feliz Navidad” blaring from my radio, I fairly buzzed with anticipation, wondering if that spark I’d felt with Jason way back in high school was about to be ignited.

  I found Jason’s house—an ultra-modern concrete and glass affair—on a winding road deep in the hills. When I got there, the narrow street was jammed with cars. In a clearing I saw a valet in a red vest. Normally, I’d rather die than fork over money to a valet, but I couldn’t afford to waste another minute, so I pulled up alongside him.

  He peered in at me through my passenger window.


  “You here with the cleaning crew?”

  I get that a lot in my ancient Corolla.

  “No, I’m a guest,” I said, stepping out of the car and brushing an Almond Joy wrapper from where it was clinging to my thigh.

  (Okay, so I had a teeny snack on the way over.)

  Then I tossed him my keys and, with as much dignity as I could muster, I headed up the steps to Jason’s party.

  From the open front door, I could hear the sounds of laughter and tinkling glasses, a jazz rendition of “Jingle Bells” playing in the background.

  I stepped inside, and suddenly my svelte new Eileen Fisher outfit seemed a lot less svelte than it had just two seconds ago. Everywhere I looked, I saw people far hipper than moi. Way too many willowy blondes in size zero cocktail dresses.

  Oh, dear. Maybe this reconnection thing hadn’t been such a good idea.

  Then I spotted Jason across the room, chatting with a tall, aristocratic looking fellow in a tweedy blazer.

  Jason caught sight of me and flashed me his crooked smile.

  And just like that, my insecurities vanished.

  My heart skipped a beat or three as he made his way through the crowd to my side, looking tres adorable in jeans and a bright red sweater.

  “So glad you could make it, Jaine!” he said, wrapping me in the most divine hug.

  Where’s the mistletoe when you need some?

  I was standing there, fantasizing about the two of us celebrating future holidays together, bingeing on Christmas fudge, when suddenly I was brought back down to earth with a resounding thud.

  “Guess who’s here?” Jason said, releasing me from his hug. “Jim Nelson.” He pointed to the tall guy in the tweedy blazer. “The features editor at L.A. Magazine.”

  “That’s nice,” I said with a vague smile, wondering why he thought I’d be so excited to see a magazine editor. And then it all came flooding back to me—that whopper of a lie I told about writing an article for L.A. Magazine.

  “I figured you two would have plenty to talk about since you’re writing that story for him. Let me go get him.”

  Oh, hell. I couldn’t possibly talk to this Nelson guy and have him unmask me as the fake that I was.

  My first thought was to jump back in my Corolla and race home. But I’d already given it to the valet. And Lord knows where he’d parked it. Probably somewhere in West Covina. It could take ages for him to bring it back. What if Jason spotted me out front and came trotting after me, with his editor friend in tow?

  No, there was only one sensible thing to do:

  Hide until the party was over and then sneak out in the dead of night.

  Quickly, I nipped up a nearby stairway to the second floor and ducked into the first room I saw, closing the door behind me. It was dark inside and, unable to see where I was going, I stumbled over something in my path. Something big and hairy with sharp pointy teeth. A Doberman to be precise, as I discovered when I flipped on the light. And he was not alone. A fellow Doberman stood beside him.

  (For the purposes of this narration and to avoid confusion, I shall call the first Doberman “Abbott” and the second Doberman “Costello.”)

  “Nice doggies!” I said, with a sickly smile.

  Sadly, Abbott and Costello were not in the mood to be chummy.

  On the contrary, they bared their pointy teeth and growled most menacingly.

  “Well, nice meeting you,” I said, starting for the door.

  But Abbott and Costello were not about to let me go.

  Like a flash they were at the doorway blocking my exit, fangs bared, massive jaws dripping with drool.

  How I yearned for the good old days of Edna the receptionist.

  Now they started advancing on me, backing me into the room, which seemed to be some sort of guest bedroom. Any minute, they’d be pinning me to the bed, lunging at my neck, going for the jugular.

  Frantically I looked around for an escape route.

  And then—hallelujah!—I saw two French doors leading out onto a balcony.

  If I could make it outside, I’d be safe.

  My heart in my throat (better there than in Abbott and Costello’s jaws), I started sprinting across the room. But I hadn’t taken two steps when one of the Dobermans, I believe it was Abbott, clamped down on the leg of my expensive new Eileen Fisher pants.

  Oh, hell. He had the velvet in his iron jaws and refused to let go.

  Desperate to break free, I slipped out of the pants (thank heavens for elastic waists!) and let him have them.

  I hated to lose them, but it was clearly all for the best, since Abbott, now busy chomping on Eileen Fisher, had forgotten all about Yours Truly.

  Which left me free to dash over to the French doors.

  Unfortunately at that juncture, Costello, heretofore busy sniffing at Abbott’s tush, sprang into action and came lunging at me.

  Or, I should say, at my Eileen Fisher beaded top.

  I quickly pulled it off and tossed it at him.

  Apparently Costello was an Eileen Fisher fan, too, because seconds later he was next to Abbott on the floor, both of them happily noshing on my new outfit.

  Grateful it was not me under their grinding teeth, I raced out onto the balcony, shutting the door firmly behind me.

  I stood there, breathing an enormous sigh of relief, when suddenly flood lights snapped on from the garden below.

  “Jaine?”

  I looked down and saw Jason standing with the guy from L.A. Magazine. They were both staring up at me, mouths gaping. And I suddenly realized I was standing there wearing nothing but a wonderbra and striped elf tights.

  “This is Jim Nelson from L.A. Magazine,” Jason called up. “He says he’s never heard of you.”

  Oh, gulp.

  “And this,” he said, putting his arm around one of the size zero blondes I’d seen earlier that evening, “is my fiancée, Dawn.”

  Uh-oh. Time to cancel that mistletoe.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Oh, Lord. What a disaster!”

  It was the next day during one of our lulls in Santa Land, and I was baring my soul to Barnaby.

  “There I was practically naked out on that balcony, everybody staring at me.”

  It’s true. Soon after I was discovered in my elf tights and wonderbra, the whole party had trotted outside to see what the commotion was about.

  Eventually Jason came upstairs and called off the dogs. And I slunk off in disgrace, my Eileen Fisher outfit shredded to bits and soaked with Doberman drool.

  “How could I have been so wrong about Jason?” I sighed. “It was like high school all over again. I’d convinced myself he liked me when all he wanted was to be friends. When will I ever learn?”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself, kiddo,” Barnaby said. “This Jason character talked about reconnecting and didn’t mention Word One about a girlfriend. It’s no wonder you thought he was available.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said, sucking on a candy cane I’d nabbed from the Conspicuous Consumption Christmas tree. “But still, when I think of myself out on that balcony in nothing but a wonderbra and elf tights, I want to die.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Barnaby said, a Santa-like twinkle in his eye. “After work tonight, why don’t we go over to Ben & Jerry’s and drown your sorrows in a hot fudge sundae? My treat.”

  If he were twenty years younger, I would’ve asked him to marry me.

  “Sounds wonderful,” I said.

  “Uh-oh,” he said, fluffing his beard. “Here come some kiddies. Better put on a happy face.”

  We resumed our roles as Santa and loyal elf until closing time at nine when we headed off to the locker room together.

  “I think I’ll order the Brownie Special,” Barnaby said, opening his locker door. “A warm brownie topped with ice cream, hot fudge sauce, and a mini-mountain of whipped cream.”

  “I’m feeling better already.” I grinned.

  “See? By tomorrow you’ll have forgotte
n all about Jason.”

  He reached into his locker to get his street clothes, and as he did something fell to the floor.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, bending down to pick it up.

  And suddenly all thoughts of Brownie Specials evaporated into the ether.

  There lying on the floor was a bright red scarf. With a holly berry pattern. I’d seen that scarf somewhere before. On the day of Scotty’s murder. I remembered the old lady who screamed in terror when Prozac leaped onto the Christmas tree—the crazy dame who’d insisted Prozac was a bat. That old lady had been wearing a scarf just like this.

  Omigosh. Was it possible that the old lady in the mall hadn’t been an old lady—but Barnaby in disguise?

  Barnaby was a diminutive guy. With the right makeup, he could easily pass for a woman. Hadn’t he said he’d played Lady Macbeth in prep school?

  According to witnesses, Barnaby was supposed to have been at the movies when Scotty was killed. Had he somehow slipped out of the theater and nipped across town to plunge a lethal snowflake in Scotty’s heart?

  I so did not want to believe that my cherubic co-worker was the killer, but something was telling me he was. Namely, that holly berry scarf, still lying on the floor between us.

  But I couldn’t let Barnaby see that I suspected anything. I had to be bright and cheery and act like nothing was wrong.

  Alas, it was too late. When I got up to hand him the scarf, I found myself looking smack dab into the nuzzle of a snub-nosed revolver.

  “Oh, dear,” he tsked, grabbing the scarf from me. “I should have burned it. But I hated to give it up. The Crazy Mall Lady was one of my favorite roles.”

  “So it was you at the mall that day,” I said, my heart plummeting.

  “I was quite magnificent, wasn’t I?” he asked, the revolver now aimed at my gut.

  I nodded woodenly, determined to keep him talking. Surely the Conspicuous Consumption security cameras would pick up this little scene, and before long someone would come racing to my rescue.

  “But I don’t understand,” I said. “Why did you kill Scotty? Just because he told everyone you’d never been a big time actor?”