Table of Contents
Cover
CHARLOTTE MACLEOD - COUNTERFEIT CHRISTMAS
REGINALD HILL - THE RUNNING OF THE DEER
ELIZABETH PETERS - LIZ PETERS, PI
MEDORA SALE - ANGELS
JOHN MALCOLM - THE ONLY TRUE UNRAVELLER
DOROTHY CANNELL - THE JANUARY SALE STOWAWAY
BILL CRIDER - THE SANTA CLAUS CAPER
PATRICIA MOYES - FAMILY CHRISTMAS
EVELYN E. SMITH - MISS MELVILLE REJOICES
ERIC WRIGHT - TWO IN THE BUSH
MICKEY FRIEDMAN - THE FABULOUS NICK
ROBERT BARNARD - A POLITICAL NECESSITY
MARGARET MARON - FRUITCAKE, MERCY, AND BLACK-EYED PEAS
Back cover
Cover
A Christmas Stocking
Full of Praise for
Christmas Stalkings
* * *
“A fine gift for any mystery fan, a package of holiday
goodies you can devour without giving a
thought to calories.”
—DPI
“A good way for mystery buff to satisfy their need
to read a good yarn even during the hectic
holiday season.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“The yuletide cheer and seasonal mayhem wrapped up
in these 13 tales make a package suitable for any
reader’s Christmas list.”
—Publishers Weekly
“I can’t think of anything better to put in mystery
readers’ stockings than Christmas Stalkings.”
—Virginian-Pilot
“Only the most hard-boiled Scrooge will “bah,
humbug” this baker’s dozen of new mystery short
stories from an interesting collection of holiday elves.
MacLeod’s collection is a fun read—and a fine
introduction the work of 13 talented writers.”
—Booklist
“Something to put under the tree for your favorite
mystery addict (or yourself).”
—Washington Times
“Christmas Stalkings will provide mystery buffs several
hours of reading enjoyment during the holidays or on
a cold winter’s night.”
—Milwaukee Journal
“Every bit as entertaining as Mistletoe Mysteries.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
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Other Christmas Pleasures
Edited by
Charlotte MacLeod
MISTLETOE MYSTERIES
PLEASING, PERPLEXING MYSTERIES
FROM ACCLAIMED AUTHOR
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Christmas Stalkings
COLLECTED BY
CHARLOTTE MACLEOD
THE MYSTERIOUS PRESS New York •Tokyo • Sweden
Published by Warner Books
A Time Warner Company
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
CHRISTMAS STALKINGS
“Counterfeit Christmas” by Charlotte MacLeod. Copyright © 1991 by
Charlotte MacLeod. “The Running of the Deer” by Reginald Hill. Copyright © 1991 by
Reginald Hill. “Liz Peters, PI” by Elizabeth Peters. Copyright ©1991 by Elizabeth
Peters. “Angels” by Medora Sale. Copyright © 1991 by Medora Sale. “The Only True Unraveller” by John Malcolm. Copyright © 1991 by
John Malcolm. “The January Sale Stowaway” by Dorothy J. Cannell. Copyright © 1991
by Dorothy J. Cannell. The story appears by arrangement
with the author and the Jane Rotrosen Agency. “The Santa Claus Caper” by Bill Crider. Copyright © 1991 by Bill
Crider. “Family Christmas” by Patricia Moyes. Copyright © 1991 by Patricia
Moyes. “Miss Melville Rejoices” by Evelyn E. Smith. Copyright © 1991 by
Evelyn E. Smith. “Two in the Bush” by Eric Wright. Copyright © 1991 by Eric Wright. “The Fabulous Nick” by Mickey Friedman. Copyright © 1991 by
Mickey Friedman. “A Political Necessity” by Robert Barnard. Copyright © 1991 by Robert
Barnard. “Fruitcake, Mercy, and Black-Eyed Peas” by Margaret Maron. Copyright
© 1991 by Margaret Maron.
MYSTERIOUS PRESS EDITION
Copyright © 1991 by Charlotte MacLeod All rights reserved.
Cover illustration by Mark Hess
The Mysterious Press name and logo are trademarks of Warner Books, Inc.
Mysterious Press Books are published by Warner Books, Inc. 1271 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 - A Time Warner Company
Printed in the United States of America
Originally published in hardcover by The Mysterious Press. First Printed in Paperback: December, 1992 10 987654321
Scanned and proofed by ebookman version 1.0
CONTENTS
Cover
CHARLOTTE MACLEOD - COUNTERFEIT CHRISTMAS
REGINALD HILL - THE RUNNING OF THE DEER
ELIZABETH PETERS - LIZ PETERS, PI
MEDORA SALE - ANGELS
JOHN MALCOLM - THE ONLY TRUE UNRAVELLER
DOROTHY CANNELL - THE JANUARY SALE STOWAWAY
BILL CRIDER - THE SANTA CLAUS CAPER
PATRICIA MOYES - FAMILY CHRISTMAS
EVELYN E. SMITH - MISS MELVILLE REJOICES
ERIC WRIGHT - TWO IN THE BUSH
MICKEY FRIEDMAN - THE FABULOUS NICK
ROBERT BARNARD - A POLITICAL NECESSITY
MARGARET MARON - FRUITCAKE, MERCY, AND BLACK-EYED PEAS
Back cover
CHARLOTTE MACLEOD - COUNTERFEIT CHRISTMAS
It was in 19
78 that Professor Peter Shandy introduced me to Balaclava Agricultural College and its traditional Grand Christmas Illumination . . . at which he behaved disgracefully, as anyone who has read Peters and my first collaborative venture, Rest You Merry, can attest.
Since that time, I’ve served as Peter’s Ms. Watson in seven other adventures, but I’d never been invited back to Balaclava at Illumination time until this odd situation cropped up. I did expect the dauntless agronomist and the possibly even more dauntless President Thorkjeld Svenson would have got all the bugs worked out by now, but it seems that the best-laid plans of mice, men, and even the Illumination Committee can still go agley.
Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
“Fa, la la la la, la la, la la.”
Professor Peter Shandy of Balaclava Agricultural College found the carolers’ injunction as superfluous as that inane string of meaningless syllables tacked on after it Every house on the Crescent was already as bedizened as it could get, for Yuletide was rife and the annual Grand Illumination was not only heard all over campus and down in the village but could also be seen, smelled, touched, and even tasted, if you got close enough.
During most of the year, the open space encircled by eight faculty dwellings, including Peter’s, was placid enough; merely a grassy sward kept in seemly order by the trusty men of Buildings & Grounds and appropriately bedded out here and there with flowers of spring, summer, or fall, depending. Came the holiday season, however, and the usually by then snow-covered Crescent erupted into a festive welter of illuminated Christmas trees and quaint gingerbread houses cut from plywood and assembled by the trusty screwdrivers of brawny students, who then donned oversized elf suits and flung themselves joyously into the time-honored Yankee pastime of turning an honest buck.
From some of the gingerbread houses, bonny lasses in frilly mobcaps and brave lads in stovepipe hats and home-grown chin whiskers purveyed artifacts ranging from apple-head dolls to woolens woven from fleece donated by the college sheep. Others hawked mulled cider, hot coffee, hot chocolate, and hot peppermint tea. Cold switchel had been tried one year but hadn’t caught on. Homemade doughnuts kept warm in imitation stoneware Crockpots whose electric cords were cunningly hidden from the customers’ view were a big item, though. So were hot dogs with festive garnishes of red-and-green piccalilli from the college ‘ kitchens.
Popcorn balls and taffy apples never failed to sell, as did more exotic comestibles. Foremost among these latter was a sort of antic sweetmeat made of shredded coconut, molasses, melted chocolate, and a number of other things that Professor Peter Shandy, the Crescent’s least Yule-minded resident, preferred not to think about Years ago, some coarse-minded wag had noticed the resemblance between these biggish, flattish, brownish, whiskerish confections and a certain bovine by-product familiar to every animal-husbandry student. Coconut cowpats he’d dubbed them, and coconut cowpats they’d remained. They sold even faster than hotcakes, and Peter Shandy thought them obscene.
But then, Peter thought most things about the Illumination obscene. For the first eighteen years of his residence on the Crescent, he’d been the self-appointed faculty Scrooge. Despite endless nagging by the Illumination Committee, he’d allowed not so much as a Styrofoam candy cane or a wreath of lollipops to sully the simple dignity of his small old rosy brick house. Then one year, goaded to fury by the Illumination chairperson’s attempt to foist off on him a poinsettia fashioned from pieces of red detergent bottles, he’d gone hog-wild.
In a burst of uncontrollable fury, Peter had hired decorators to transform his premises into a veritable Walpurgisnacht scene of garish blinking light bulbs, life-size plastic reindeer, and hideous Santa Claus masks that lit up and leered. Then, fleeing the ire of his neighbors, he’d gone off on a cruise, got shipwrecked as he well deserved to be, and slunk home to find the Illumination chairperson’s body stiff and stark behind his living-room sofa.
Oddly enough, Peter had emerged from this deplorable incident not only with a whole skin but with a wife. Under the benign influence of his delightful Helen, the renegade bachelor had been transformed into a relatively civilized husband. Even his next-door neighbor said so in her mellower moments, of which it must also be admitted she didn’t have many. By now, Peter had gentled down to the point where he didn’t even put up much of a squawk when Helen gently but firmly insisted on doing in Balaclava as the Balaclavans did.
Fortunately, Helen’s instincts were for the tastefully simple as opposed to the more-is-better. There had been one unfortunate experiment with topiary trees made from fresh-cut boxwood that stunk the place up like a houseful of tomcats, but on the whole she’d done fine. This year, Helen’s decorations were particularly charming.
Eschewing the excesses of her neighbors, she’d made low arrangements of evergreen twigs for all the front windows upstairs and down, and trimmed them with a few small rose-colored baubles and velvet bows to complement the aged brick walls. In the middle of each arrangement she’d set a real candle, protected by a glass hurricane-lamp chimney so that it could be lighted after dark without setting fire to the house. On the front door she’d hung a fat balsam wreath tied with a larger bow of the same rosy velvet. To the wreath was fastened an old brass cornet that Peter had tooted in his high school marching band, salvaged from the attic and shined up till it dazzled the eyeballs. Peter had pretended to scoff but been secretly tickled. He’d even taken pains to wire the cornet to the door, lest it be pinched by some souvenir hunter among the multitudes.
For multitudes there were. Balaclava’s Grand Illumination had been going on ever since the bleak Depression years of the early 1930s. Photographed and written up in newspapers and magazines, talked about on the radio and even shown now and then on television, the event had become a New England tradition, attracting visitors from far and wide to this rural Massachusetts community.
Fairly far, anyway, and reasonably wide. Wide enough to keep Police Chief Fred Ottermole and his force, which consisted mostly of Officer Budge Dorkin, oftentimes hard-put to keep the traffic unsnarled.
Fortunately the college had its own larger and better-equipped security force, so there was seldom any trouble about maintaining law and order.
The college, of course, was squarely behind the Illumination, and with good reason. Its student body was not rich; most of the kids were working their way, and here was a welcome source of tuition money. A fair number of students willingly forwent part or all of their Christmas holidays for the greater good of hustling the tourists. Peter could admire their self-sacrifice and respect their motives; he just didn’t see why in Sam Hill they couldn’t maintain their blasted tradition someplace else.
Out beyond the pigpens, for instance. At this very moment, a disgusting youth in a just-purchased Viking helmet with plush moose horns on it was unwrapping a coconut cowpat and throwing the paper on the trodden snow. Peter was glaring balefully down at him through the upstairs front window and wishing it were the second week of January when he heard a thump at the door.
Some keen-eyed visitor must have managed to sort out the knocker from the balsam, or else a miscreant tourist was trying to swipe his cornet Normally Peter would have flung open the window and stuck out his head to settle the matter with a lusty bellow, but he was loath to disarrange Helen’s artistically disposed greenery and even loather to smash the hurricane lamp. There was no use even trying to bellow, he’d never be able to make himself heard over the general hullabaloo. He bowed to the inevitable and went downstairs. It might be his old friend and neighbor Professor Ames, at loose ends between semesters, looking for a game of cribbage.
No, by George, it was about the third from the last person he’d have expected. Moira Haskins, the college comptroller, was a pleasant woman and a neighbor on the Crescent, but not one with whom he and Helen were on dropping-in terms. Peter had an ominous foreboding that Moira was after something.
As so often happened, Peter was right. When he indicated a readiness to divest her of her storm
coat and call Helen down from the den where she was wrapping presents, the comptroller shook her head.
“Thanks, Peter, but I can’t stay. I just wanted to show you this and see what you make of it.”
Moira’s “this” was a twenty-dollar bill. It looked to Peter like all the other twenty-dollar bills he’d been shelling out with unaccustomed abandon during this expensive season, until he put on his reading glasses and studied it closely. Then he began to chuckle. Where he’d have expected the grim and lowering portrait of President Andrew Jackson, he saw instead the even grimmer and far more lowering visage of President Thorkjeld Svenson.
“My God! Where the flaming perdition did this come from?”‘
“One of the gingerbread houses, I assume. It was in with the rest when Sylvester Lomax brought me last night’s cash pickup. I was sitting at my desk just now, counting the money for this morning’s deposit, when I did a double take and almost freaked out. What do you think, Peter? You don’t suppose somebody got to doodling around on the bill with a drawing pen or something and—”
“Not on your life. Jackson’s head is long and skinny. It might have been managed with Ulysses S. Grant, I suppose, if they could have got the beard off. Just a second, I think I’ve—” He fished in his wallet and pulled out a fifty, marveling that he did in fact still have one. “See, Grant had a heavy, squarish face like the president’s. Rather as if he’d been hacked out of Mount Rushmore.”
“Yes, I see,” said Moira. “Then why didn’t they use a fifty instead of a twenty?”
“Probably because fifties are less common and therefore more apt to be given close scrutiny. Is this the only such bill you’ve found?”
“So far. The only one that’s been caught, anyway. We’re into the fifth day of the Illumination, you know, and we’ve taken in an awful lot of money. There’s no telling how many may have slipped through.”
“Not all that many, I shouldn’t think. This is a remarkably good likeness.”
“Frighteningly good.” Moira shuddered slightly despite the storm coat she hadn’t taken off. “But President Svenson’s so much more presidential than most presidents. If those kids in the booths did happen to notice, they’d take it for granted he belonged there. Most of them have probably never heard of Andrew Jackson anyway. I wonder what Dr. Svenson’s going to think of this.”
Christmas Stalkings Page 1
