by Kacey Gene
“You didn’t answer until the third ring. Where were you?”
Jake walks through the door and slides Jennifer out of her coat before taking off his own and hanging them both up on the rack next to her front door.
“I was out.”
Her mother knows nothing about what Jennifer does with Jake, and that’s the way she wants to keep it.
“With whom?” Her mother’s voice sounds tighter than usual. She typically has a voice of perfect sophistication, like the sound of warm tea being stirred.
“I was with Jake.”
Silence.
“Mother?” Jennifer asks. She knows that her mother dislikes Jake, or more specifically, she dislikes that Jake is in Jennifer’s life. Her mother has no interest in hearing about people like Jake -- people who work, people who don’t hobnob at parties and talk about art, opera, and orchestras. Jennifer’s mother, Eleanor, is the one person Jake has never been able to charismatically win over. Jennifer knows this bothers him, even if he doesn’t admit it.
“Do you have everything in order to be here for Christmas?” her mother asks, completely changing the subject.
Her mother always does this. Whenever they move into a conversation her mother doesn’t want to have, she simply steps right out of it and begins another. That conversational hopscotch is especially reserved for any mention of Jake, Jennifer’s job, Jennifer’s choice to not live in Chicago, and...Jennifer’s father.
“Yes. I have my bus ticket, and I’ll be there by 7:00 PM on Christmas Eve. In time for church.” Jennifer frantically calculates her tasks and time in her head. She has exactly three days to get eight jars of jam made, three batches of cookies baked, and all the presents made, wrapped, and ready for Christmas Eve night.
“Bus ticket?” her mom asks, aghast. “What do you mean bus ticket?” She says the word “bus” like it’s covered in dung beetles. “I sent you a plane ticket that gets you in by 10 AM on Christmas Eve. The driver--”
“David,” Jennifer interrupts, not liking that her mom often refers to people by their jobs rather than their names.
“Yes, David is going to pick you up so you have enough time to change.”
“Change for what?” Jennifer asks.
“We have reservations for holiday tea, dear. At The Pavilion at the Langham.”
Jennifer cradles the phone in her neck and throws her hands up in frustration, which elicits a sympathetic and understanding look from Jake. He knows all about the tea ladies who bring their small dogs to afternoon tea, eat finger sandwiches, and gossip rather than talk. In fact, there’s not much Jake doesn’t know about. He and Jennifer tell each other everything, well...with one exception.
In all the years they’ve known each other, they’ve never mentioned the word “girlfriend” or “boyfriend” to one another, even though both of them have had partners and gone on many dates. Jennifer will even keep her accidental date with Matt Kiley underwraps until after it’s over, since talking about has-beens is completely acceptable in their friendship. But, in every other way, she and Jake are there for each other. They take care of each other.
Then Jennifer sees the blood that’s still on Jake’s forehead. She holds her hand over the phone’s receiver and whispers, “Alcohol and bandages are in the linen closet by the bathroom. Bring them out here.”
Jake nods before pantomiming a dainty tea drinker.
“Jennifer, I don't call you so you can converse with others.”
“Sorry, mom. Sorry. I’m listening.”
“Then it’s settled. You will be on that plane, and David will pick you up.”
“Yes, mother.”
Jennifer slumps down on one of the stools that lines her kitchen island. She rests her elbows on the cold white and grey granite, hating that she doesn’t have any fight left in her. She wants to argue. She wants to give her case for her right to ride the bus and arrive when she wants.
“I will call you tomorrow night. Love you, dear.”
And just like that, the line goes dead. Jennifer hangs up the phone just as Jake reemerges with alcohol, cotton balls, and bandages. Jennifer directs him to the stool next to her, and without saying anything about the conversation she just had, she gets to cleaning his wound.
It’s not a deep cut, but Jennifer is meticulous in her cleaning. Jake never winces as she puts the alcohol on the cut or pushes on the bandage once it’s applied.
“So,” he says as Jennifer clears the pop-up medical station. “What did Queen Majesty Hunter of the Gold Coast have to say?”
“The usual,” Jennifer says, not wanting to talk about the fact that she caved into her mother once again. Jake despises that interactions with her family always put Jennifer in a bad mood. A distant mood. Although, at least her mother calls her.
Jennifer hasn’t heard from her father in over ten years. Jake knows she’ll never admit it, but he’s convinced that’s why she moved back here after college. Sure, she grew up here, but she left when she was thirteen -- when her parents finally got that divorce they always threatened. Her dad stayed here; her mom went back to her family money in Chicago and the expectations that went with it. Jennifer teetered between the two worlds, spending summers and holidays here and the rest of her time on the Gold Coast.
Jake wishes she knew that she could talk to him about her mom, even if her mother does hate him. He’s about to tell her this exact thing when his phone goes off. Pulling it out of his pocket, he sees a message from his dad.
“They ran the plates,” Jake says, and the mood in the room changes from sullen to electrifying.
“Which did they run? The P-version or the B-version?” Jennifer asks, relieved to have a different focus.
“Both. They said the B-version isn’t registered anywhere.”
“Which doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“Right,” Jake says, knowing that forged plates on a killer’s car are about as rare as mosquitos in the summer. “The P-version has a match, and the guy lives here in town. The plates belong to a Matthew Kiley.”
Jennifer almost drops the alcohol and the bandages as her mind translates Jake’s words -- the license plate of the person who just tried to kill them belongs to the guy she unintentionally accepted a date from just this afternoon.
Chapter Five
Candlelight Crafts
Jennifer always sets her alarm for 6:00 AM, but there’s really no reason to. No matter what time she goes to bed, she always wakes up right around 5:30 in the morning. Not that she’s complaining. It’s her favorite time of the day, when the sun hasn’t stretched itself into her life, and everyone else is still asleep, including Jake, who is currently camped out on the couch in her main room.
She tried to offer him her bed, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and as he said last night, “If you’re booking drinks with killers there’s no way I’m letting you sleep here by yourself.”
“In that case,” she said, throwing him an apron, “you’re helping me make this jam.”
It wasn’t until they had all the strawberries chopped, the lemons juiced, and the sugar measured that Jennifer brought up Matt Kiley again.
“It just doesn’t fit,” she said. “Matt Kiley makes Rice Krispie treats every Friday for the teaching staff, and maniac drivers and Rice Krispie treat makers just don’t go together.”
Jake met her justification for Matt’s innocence with a skeptical look, but he let the subject drop. Instead, he focused on boiling and sanitizing jars while Jennifer cooked down the strawberries into a sweet pile of mush.
In the end, they made nine jars of fresh strawberry jam (eight for friends and family and one for them). Even this morning she can still smell the remnants of crushed berries mixed with lemon and sugar. She feels a bit more at ease knowing that one of her Christmas tasks is now checked off the list. Only three more projects to go. And a murder to solve.
Pulling out her crochet pattern for Julie’s baby-to-be’s stocking, Jennifer lights the balsam and fir candles she
has lining her bedroom windows. She loves to crochet by candle light while the sun comes up. Her grandma on her dad’s side was the one who taught Jennifer to crochet, and in those candle-lit sunrises, she feels like her grandma is there with her in some way.
When Jennifer gets the last candle lit, she sees a giant snowflake glide past her window. Then another. And then another. She goes over to the glass door that leads to her balcony, opens it, and takes in a deep breath of the cutting air. Even though she immediately starts shivering, she stays outside and looks at the Christmas trees that light up the windows across the way. Jennifer wonders if there’s someone on the other side looking at her tree. This year she went all out, making Jake help her lug the 8-foot tree all the way down her hall and into her apartment.
She has it positioned at the back of the main room, so it’s the first thing she sees when she walks in the door -- its dark green branches, white lights, and handmade ornaments that were passed down from her great grandmother to her grandmother to her mother and then to her. Jennifer loves these kinds of traditions, and as she steps out on her balcony and looks up at the dark sky that still has some residual stars in it, she’s reminded of another tradition.
She opens her mouth and catches a snowflake on her tongue. Her dad taught her that, and he used to do it with her every first snow fall.
She thinks about how the snowflakes taste exactly the same as they did back then, even though so much else has changed.
As the wind whips into her bedroom, Jennifer closes the door, snuggles herself into the thick, navy blanket she has folded at the end of her bed, and crawls beneath her white, puffy duvet. Pulling her crimson and grey yarn right next to her, she takes her crochet hook and begins the chain for the stocking. When she gets to 43 chains she starts to single crochet into each back loop, and her mind threads together the pieces of Fred Gailey’s murder.
Even though none of the lab results are back yet, Jennifer knows that Fred was murdered, no matter what Sharb argues. Her mind wanders into questions about why someone would recreate that quote from A Christmas Carol. Does that mean the person loves or hates Christmas? For that matter, did Fred Gailey love or hate Christmas?
There wasn’t much in his house that would point to him being a Christmas lover -- there wasn’t a tree, a wreath, or any scents of cinnamon or pine. But there was a ridiculous amount of pudding, and something in Fred’s eyes makes Jennifer feel like he loved Christmas. She can’t explain it, but the most important clues are almost always the inexplicable kind.
And why would the killer take the book?
Jennifer hears Jake’s warning in her head: We don’t know the killer stole the book.
She crochets to the end of her row, chains a single loop, and goes back down another row of single crochets while she replays everything from yesterday evening. She needs to prove that the book was taken, but how can she do that?
“The book dealer,” she says, almost missing a stitch with her epiphany. Those old Dickens novels aren’t just something Fred would have picked up in a random store. They must have gone through a book dealer or a specialty book shop, so maybe the novels have a stamp or some type of sticker in them. If she contacts the seller of the Dickens books, she can find out if A Christmas Carol was in the set, and it’s possible the book dealer will even know Fred Gailey. It’s not exactly an easy name to forget, and she can’t imagine that the people who buy antique books are a large group.
Excited by her new trail, she casts off her crocheting and runs to her bedroom door. She opens it and is about to yell her idea to Jake, but then she sees him peacefully sleeping in the yellow glow of her Christmas tree lights. The red and grey blanket she crocheted last year in Chicago is draped across him, and his hair is sticking out every which way on the pillow.
He looks so childlike and cute that Jennifer can’t disturb him. Plus, she hardly ever gets to see him like this. He always has an air of police and crime business around him, but this Jake -- the one that interlocks his fingers when he sleeps -- is the one she remembers from when she was little. It’s her best friend, who currently needs his rest.
She convinces herself that her idea will be just as exciting when he wakes up. She thinks about the croissants she has in the freezer and the strawberry jam that’s resting on her countertop. They’ll have that and a steaming pot of ginger tea for their breakfast.
Bam.
Jennifer almost lurches out of her skin when the sound slams against her window.
Bam.
The sound comes again, this time waking up a very confused Jake, who looks surprisingly at Jennifer.
“What was that?” Jake asks, his voice groggy but alert. “And why are you watching me sleep?” he asks, sitting up.
“I wasn’t watching you sleep,” Jennifer says defensively, even though she was doing exactly that. But the chill coming from her bones concerns her more than that small lie. “Did a bird hit my window?” Jennifer asks, but it’s still too dark for birds to be flying.
Bam.
“There it is again,” she says, now realizing that this is no longer a random sound. Something is being thrown at her window. But she’s on the eighth floor of her building. No one could throw something that high up.
Jake gets up from the couch, his white t-shirt askew and his plaid boxers hitting him mid-thigh.
“Stay back,” he says, guiding her to the wall where she has her fireplace. He moves toward the window.
Bam. Bam.
The hits are more frequent now. Jennifer’s eyes adjust to the darkness, and she sees that whatever is getting flung at her windows is oozing down the glass.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
One after another comes, and now Jennifer’s heart is leaping and pounding. Whoever is doing this knows where she lives. More than that, if they don’t stop, Jennifer isn’t sure how long her windows can hold out.
But then the attack abruptly stops. Her windows are covered in a substance that’s as dark as mud.
“What is it?” Jennifer asks Jake, who’s standing at the brick column that separates her windows. He angles his view, but without more light, he can’t determine what’s seeping down the glass.
“I’m not sure, but I think they’ve--”
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Jennifer jumps back so quickly that she knocks over the nativity scene she has displayed on her fireplace mantle. The little lambs drop and go rolling across the floor.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Someone is knocking on her front door, and the fist is pounding harder and harder. Jennifer can’t help but hear how similar it sounds to the attack on her windows. As she looks at her front door, she can’t help but think that the killer is on the other side of it and coming for her.
Chapter Six
Nosy Neighbors
Jennifer turns her eyes on Jake, who holds a finger to his lips -- miming for her to remain silent. He tiptoes over to his pile of clothes next to the couch and pulls out his gun. Like a cat on the prowl, he walks past Jennifer mouthing for her to “stay here,” as he moves toward the door.
But there’s no way she can stand idly by -- next to her red and white stockings that hang from the garland she has snaked around her now disheveled nativity scene -- while Jake approaches her front door with a gun. She needs to know who’s at the door. She needs to know who’s after her.
So, ignoring his command, Jennifer trails in the silence of Jake’s footsteps.
When they get to the door, Jake looks back at Jennifer with anger and annoyance across his face, but it’s not because she ignored his request for her to stay put. “You don’t have a peep hole?” he whispers, his voice as tense as a whisper can get.
“It didn’t come with the apartment,” she whispers back, defensively. “And a ‘peep hole’ wasn’t high on my to-do list.” Jennifer explains.
“I can hear your voice, Jennifer Hunter.” It’s the person on the other side of the door. The voice is crackly, grumpy, and Jennifer immediately recognizes it
as Mrs. Muscolino’s voice. Her tense shoulders fall, and Jennifer confidently moves toward the chain lock to unfasten it.
Jake grabs her hand before she can unlatch anything. “What are you doing?” he asks, still keeping his voice hushed.
“It’s my neighbor Mrs. Muscolino.”
“So?” Jake says, pulling Jennifer behind him. “She could still have something to do with this.”
Jennifer shakes her head as Jake keeps the chain latched, hides his gun from sight, and opens the door just a crack.
“You mind telling me why--” but Mrs. Muscolino doesn’t finish her sentence. “Oh, you’re not Jennifer,” she says, and Jennifer hears a change in Mrs. Muscolino’s voice. It’s not grumbling and guttural like it is when she talks to Jennifer; instead, Mrs. Muscolino is talking like each of her words is being delivered by angels.
“No, I’m Jennifer’s friend,” Jake says, seeing what Jennifer already knew -- that there’s no way this perturbed, eighty-seven-year-old woman could have anything to do with whatever got launched at Jennifer’s windows. “Do you mind waiting just a moment so I can unchain the door?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Muscolino coyly says.
Closing the door, Jake holds out his gun to Jennifer and says, “hide this,” but Jennifer crosses her arms in protest. He knows she hates guns. He knows that she won’t touch guns. With an apologetic look he quickly hides it in the Santa cookie jar Jennifer has in the middle of her kitchen island.
When he opens the door Jennifer takes her place next to him.
“Good morning, Mrs. Muscolino,” Jennifer says. Mrs. Muscolino throws Jennifer a side glance with pursed lips and slanted eyes, but then her lips and face soften when she turns her attention back on Jake.
“Seems that someone was playing a Christmas prank this morning,” Jake says. “It woke us up as well. I can’t apologize enough for the noise.” And then he flashes his smile -- his big, dimple-creating smile that makes every woman Jake has ever used it on swoon into admiration.
