Purring Around the Christmas Tree

by Liz Mugavero

  “Can you take her to sit down somewhere?” Stan pointed to a row of folding chairs that had been set up for anyone who couldn’t stand for the celebration.

  “Viv, come on.” Liam slipped his arm around the distraught woman, still looking at Stan with a question. She shook her head. He’d just begun to lead her away when Victoria O’Sullivan appeared, two steaming paper cups in hand. She squinted at them, then looked at her sobbing sister.

  “What on earth is going on?” she asked.

  “Something’s wrong with Seamus,” Miss Viv wailed, flinging her arms around her sister. The coffees went flying. Stan felt one batch of the liquid splash down her jeans, luckily not hitting Scruffy in the process. She bent to scoop up her dog while Liam tried to wrangle the two women, his eyes searching Stan’s questioningly. She shrugged helplessly.

  Jessie waited, lips pressed together, until Liam had gotten them out of sight. Then, cursing under her breath, she reached into the sleigh and yanked the unruly white beard away from Santa’s face.

  And stopped and stared. “What the … ?”

  Stan moved to her side and looked down. Her mouth dropped open. She and Jessie looked at each other.

  It wasn’t Seamus McGee. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Stan couldn’t place him. She was also distracted by his black eye, which looked quite fresh. His ashen face and slitted eyes were a sharp contrast to his bright red, jolly Santa suit. There didn’t seem to be any life left in him, and he looked even worse against the backdrop of the handcrafted sleigh, such a beautiful work of art. The bench where Santa and his elf, Amara, had sat looked like cherrywood. It still smelled of fresh wood shavings. Brightly wrapped Christmas boxes were scattered on the floor, a stark contrast to the still figure. Stan’s stomach turned and she looked away.

  Jessie’s face went through the range of confusion to relief then back to blank. Trooper Lou Sturgis raced up, speaking into the radio sitting on his shoulder. “Have the ambulance pull up in front of the town hall,” he instructed.

  Seconds later the ambulance roared to a stop in the street. Members of the crowd began to notice something wasn’t right and drifted back to the area, curious. The paramedics unloaded a stretcher. They pushed it up through the snow piles, through the crowd of holiday revelers-turned-gawkers and over to the waiting sleigh. They took over as Jessie stepped back to let them do their job.

  “Is this for real? Santa keeled over?” the female EMT asked no one in particular.

  “I don’t know why anyone would lie about that.” Her partner, a bearded guy who looked like he hadn’t slept in days, yawned. “That’s a big bummer for the holiday season.”

  Stan’s entire body felt chilled, and she knew it didn’t have anything to do with the cold weather. She hugged Scruffy tighter against her. Had Santa really died on his way to light the tree? How awful. What a Christmas memory. At least Tony’s fast thinking had saved the entire town’s children from being completely traumatized.

  Jessie came over to Stan. “Did you see that?” she asked. “It wasn’t my uncle!”

  “Thank God,” Stan said. “Cause this guy’s not looking too good.”

  “Yeah, but, what the heck’s going on?” Jessie dropped her voice. “My uncle is supposed to be Santa. Not this guy. And how the hell did he end up … in this condition, anyway?” She looked at the paramedics bent over the unresponsive man again and shook her head. “Shoot, Harold. I’m sorry.”

  “Heart attack, maybe?” Stan suggested helpfully. “Harold who?”

  “Harold Dewey,” said Trooper Lou, coming over to them, his face grim. “And he looks dead.”

  Jessie didn’t respond. The EMTs would be the ones to make that call, but all the evidence pointed to that outcome.

  “You think he finally did it?” Lou asked. “Drank himself to death?”

  “I heard he was getting sober,” Jessie said. “Either way, it’s a darn shame. He could be a pain in the rear, but he had a hard life.” She watched the paramedics wrestle Harold’s body onto the stretcher, then walked over to confer with them.

  Stan watched her go, then turned to Tony, who had come up next to her. He looked at her, his lips pressed together, jaw set in a serious line. “I don’t know what happened,” he said in response to her unasked question. “He … was just slumped over. I wish I could’ve helped him.” He looked sad. And in shock. Stan felt sorry for him. She and Tony hadn’t gotten off to the best start when he’d come to town. The fact that he’d started dating her mother, and was now engaged to her, hadn’t helped much either. But they’d recently come to a new understanding of each other, as well as a mutual respect. He’d certainly had his share of challenges to deal with since taking this job. Challenges one might not expect from such a small town.

  Behind them, Trooper Garrett Colby and his K-9, Rosie, slipped into place, a human and canine barrier against the gawkers who were starting to gather. It all seemed surreal—the joy that only a few moments ago had filled the air had now faded into a blanket of sorrow covering the town.

  Stan didn’t know Harold Dewey, although he looked familiar enough that she must’ve seen him around. It made her sad, thinking of how he must’ve been excited to play Santa and make the town happy, and now he wouldn’t even be around to see Christmas. She wondered how he’d come to be doing Seamus’s job, and getting dead while attempting it.

  Jessie came back to stand beside Stan. “You should really stand back with the other civilians,” she said, but her voice held no conviction.

  “Sure,” Stan agreed. “I’ll go in a second.” She watched as the EMTs wheeled the stretcher away, and sighed before setting Scruffy down. “Is he dead? For sure?”

  “For sure,” Jessie said.

  “What a way to end the evening.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jessie sighed. “You know, this was supposed to be a fun night. My kid was looking forward to this. Heck, Marty was looking forward to this.” Marty Thompson, Jessie’s boyfriend, was used to their evenings being interrupted by unfortunate events that called Jessie away to work. But Marty’s enthusiasm for Jessie’s police work kept him from becoming too bothered by it all. “Leave it to this town to have a disaster at Christmas.”

  Stan, for once, wholeheartedly agreed. How could a night so magical have turned so sour?

  “Hey, Jess,” Lou called. “Ted wants to know if he should take the sleigh away.”

  Jessie walked over to join Lou. They conferred briefly. Jessie glanced into the sleigh, then Stan saw her look again. She said something to Lou. He reached into his belt and handed her a glove and a flashlight. She pulled on the glove and shined the flashlight into the sleigh before bending over it. When she stood up, she held a Styrofoam cup in her hand.

  Stan frowned, watching carefully. Lou cocked his head, then called to Colby, who came over with a kit. Stan inched closer, hoping to overhear what was going on. Jessie sniffed the cup, then held it out. Colby dropped it into a bag and sealed it.

  “I want a test run on that,” Stan heard Jessie say. “Just to be safe.” Jessie looked up and saw Stan watching her. She broke eye contact and turned back to Lou. “And I need all civilians out of here. Stan, that means you. Go make sure Liam gets Miss Viv out of here. This is an unattended death and we have a job to do.”

  Chapter Three

  Unattended death. It certainly sounded ominous, and a shift in tone from a moment ago. Before Stan could try to get any more info out of Jessie, she heard a shout behind her.

  “What in blazes is going on over here?” Char Mackey pushed past Trooper Colby, completely ignoring his attempts to hold her back. She had bulk on her side—she merely brushed him aside like a fly. She’d attempted to tame her big orange hair with a purple scarf, but it had slipped out of place and curls stuck out every which way.

  Trooper Lou immediately stepped into her path. “Ms. Mackey. I’m afraid you can’t be over here,” he said. “Please wait across the street. Stan, can you go with her?”

  “Char. Com
e on,” Stan said, reaching for her friend’s hand.

  “What on earth happened?” Char peered over Trooper Lou’s shoulder, which wasn’t difficult considering the four-inch platform boots she wore despite the winter weather. “What did y’all do with Santa? I heard he got taken away in an ambulance?” She looked at Stan. “Is Seamus alright?”

  “Seamus is fine, as far as I know. He wasn’t in the Santa suit.” Stan tugged her arm to pull her away. “It was someone else. He got sick. Come on. I’ll explain.”

  “Wait. What do you mean?” Char dug her heels in, refusing to move, her eyes wild. “How could it not be Seamus? Have you seen him?” She spun in a circle, eyes wildly searching the crowd as if he’d pop out at any minute, laughing.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Stan said. “Char, you need to calm down. People are staring.” She took Char’s arm and turned her away from the curious crowd members who’d heard her outburst and were wondering what the second half of this macabre show would entail.

  “I don’t care. Have you seen Ray?” There was a frantic note to her voice that Stan had never heard from Char before. Fear started to work its way up her body, chilling her.

  “I haven’t seen Ray or Seamus,” Stan said. “Do you need to sit down?”

  “No, I do not need to sit down,” Char snapped. “I need to find my mysterious vanishing husband!”

  “Char.” Stan was starting to get worried about her friend’s mental state. “What are you talking about? Ray? Vanish? He’s the most dependable person I’ve ever met. I’m sure he’s just over at the pub or something.”

  It was true. In contrast to his gregarious, outgoing wife who hailed from New Orleans, Ray was a simple New Englander who’d lived in Connecticut all his life. He enjoyed spending time with the alpacas on the grounds of their bed-and-breakfast in town, and fixing things around the house for their guests while Char cooked genuine Southern meals and made drinks that would make her ancestors proud. As far as Stan knew, Ray rarely left his wife’s side. Stan had bonded with the couple her first weekend in town, and they’d been friends ever since. Ray had quickly become her go-to person too. She’d be surprised if he’d ever let anyone down in his life.

  But Char was adamant. “He’s not at the pub. He’s not anywhere. And his phone is off. He was with Seamus. They went to Boston together last night for their annual poker game and I haven’t seen him since.”

  Stan let that sink in for a moment. Ray was supposed to be with Seamus. Seamus was supposed to be in the Santa suit. The guy in the Santa suit was dead. She looked at her friend carefully. “You’re sure his phone is off?”

  “Baby doll. It goes straight to voicemail. Trust me, it’s off.”

  Stan pondered that. “Was he supposed to meet you here?”

  “Meet me here?” Char snorted. “He was supposed to be home earlier today. Well before it was time for Seamus to dress up as Santa. But they never showed.”

  And someone else ended up in the Santa suit. Dead. Stan tried to keep her best blank face on. She failed miserably.

  “See?” Char said triumphantly. “You even think that’s odd.”

  “Kristan! Char! My God, what’s happened?”

  They both turned to see Stan’s mother shoving through the crowd to get to them. Patricia Connor looked shaken, something one didn’t see often. Especially her daughters. When she reached Stan, she grabbed her hand. “Have you seen Tony? I was a few minutes late getting here because I was with the caterer. But I heard something terrible happened and I couldn’t reach him.”

  Tony and Patricia were getting married on Christmas Eve. Which was another reason why Stan hoped this was all simply a misunderstanding. Their engagement party had been marred by a murder. Stan didn’t think her mother could handle her actual wedding falling to the same fate.

  “Tony’s right there, Mom.” She pointed to where Tony and Trooper Lou huddled together. Probably giving a statement. “Santa … got sick in transit,” she said.

  “You never told me who was in the Santa suit,” Char said.

  “Harold Dewey,” Stan said. “Did you know him?”

  Char’s eyes widened. “Harold? My goodness, are you sure?”

  Stan nodded.

  Patricia frowned. “I don’t know who that is, but it’s terrible, regardless.” She turned to Stan. “Please tell me you weren’t involved.”

  “Mom! Jeez. What do you mean, involved? I was here to watch the lighting.”

  “Don’t be defensive. You have a history with these things,” Patricia said.

  Thanks for reminding me, Stan thought. She gritted her teeth and didn’t say anything.

  Tony spotted them from where he’d been talking with Trooper Lou and made his way over. “Darling. I’m sorry I couldn’t pick up when you called,” he said to Patricia, bending down to kiss her cheek. “What a terrible tragedy.”

  “I just heard. What will happen now?”

  “We’re trying to keep people from panicking and finding out Santa’s fate. The shops are still open, so hopefully most people are preoccupied.” He looked at Stan. “I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to tonight.”

  Shop. Jeez. Stan had forgotten about her own shop needing to be open. She hoped Brenna had made her way back over there before the commotion began. Brenna McGee, Jake’s other sister, worked with her. “You shouldn’t be sorry. I feel terrible about Harold. Are you guys going to go home?”

  “I think so,” Tony said. “If we leave, hopefully the crowd will start to disperse. Plus it’s getting cold.”

  “I’ll make us a coffee brandy at home,” Patricia said to Tony.

  Stan watched them walk away, still amazed at how much her mother had changed over the past few months. She still had moments when she wanted to wring her mother’s neck—almost thirty-eight years of not seeing eye-to-eye could hardly be reversed in a few weeks—but this was definitely a kinder, gentler Patricia. She wasn’t even minding so much having her in town.

  Stan’s cell rang as she picked up Scruffy and retreated far enough away from Jessie and her team that she wouldn’t be in the way. She fumbled with her glove and finally answered, puzzled when she saw Amara’s number. Inadvertently, she glanced over at the spot where Amara had stood a few minutes ago, but she was gone.

  “Amara? Are you okay? Where are you?”

  “I’m at my house. I asked Jessie to come take my statement here when she’s ready. Can you come over? The front door is unlocked.” Amara’s voice shook. It unnerved Stan. Her Zen-like neighbor had an unshakeable inner peace that Stan had envied from the moment she’d met her. Amara was the quirky neighbor who did yoga out on the green in the summer and invited people over for sage-burning parties to help reinvigorate their chi. She always had a wise outlook and a calming presence. But tonight she sounded absolutely distraught.

  Which was even more unsettling.

  Chapter Four

  “I’ll be right there,” Stan said, recognizing the urgency in her friend’s voice. She turned back to Char. “Listen. Why don’t you go to my shop and wait for me. There’s coffee and food there. And it’s warm. Brenna’s there.” She tugged her scarf tighter around her neck, realizing for the first time how stinking cold it was to be standing outside. Even Scruffy was starting to shiver under her new wool sweater.

  “Fine,” Char said. “I’ll go in a minute. I want to talk to Jessica first.”

  Ouch. Using Jessie’s full name meant Char wasn’t happy with her. And Jessie would be just as unhappy if Char actually called her that.

  “Good. I’ll see you over there.”

  “Where are you going?” Char wanted to know.

  “To call Jake,” Stan lied. She waited until Char had walked away, back toward where Jessie and her team stood, then scurried across the parking lot, past the throngs of people clustered together talking a million miles an hour about what happened—speculation included Santa had gone on a drunken binge before he reported for duty and that he’d died of alcohol poisoning—
and wondering out loud if this would ruin the entire holiday season for everyone. Stan shook her head. People never ceased to amaze her.

  On her way, she texted Brenna.

  Are you at the shop?

  Brenna responded immediately.

  Yup. Open for business.

  Be there soon, Stan texted back.

  She hurried down the sidewalk, Scruffy trotting next to her, and crossed the street into Amara’s driveway. Before she could ring the bell, the door opened. Vincent, Amara’s fiancé, motioned her inside. Gratefully, she stepped into the warm house. They had the heat blasting, which was a relief after being out in the cold for so long. Their golden retriever, Beau, lumbered over to sniff Scruffy, whose tail vibrated with excitement at the potential playmate. Stan took off her leash and let her enjoy her time with her friend, then turned to Vincent.

  “Hey,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll let Amara tell you.” Vince motioned toward the kitchen, where Amara huddled at the table over a mug of tea.

  Stan hurried over and sat down across from her friend. “Are you okay?” She squeezed Amara’s hand.

  “No. Maybe. I have no idea.” Amara shook her head. She twisted the mug in a circle on the table, leaving a ring of moisture from the heat. “Stan. Before Jessie comes, I have to tell you something.”

  “Okay,” Stan said, glancing at Vincent. His face was white, his mouth set in a grim line, but he said nothing.

  “Santa … he was fine until he had the refreshments that were in the headquarters. I swear to God. I know it sounds crazy.”

  Another chill raced up Stan’s spine, despite the cozy temperature in here. She sat back on her heels, her mind racing. She remembered Jessie reaching into the sleigh and picking up the Styrofoam cup, realizing for the first time what had escaped her earlier. Izzy, Stan’s good friend and the owner of Izzy Sweet’s Sweets, had supplied those refreshments. If something was wrong with them, was Izzy at fault?

  “What are you saying?” Stan asked. “Izzy did the refreshments, Amara. Harold could’ve been feeling sick to begin with and just didn’t say anything. I mean, if he had a heart attack or something, you don’t get a lot of warning, right?” She looked at Vincent again, encouraging him to agree with her, but he said nothing.