by JOAN HESSS
While I waited, I thought about her story. Like Roy’s, it was plausible; she certainly could have taken it upon herself to lecture Nicholas. That she’d gone there at twelve-thirty at night would have seemed unremarkable to her. Neither, apparently, did tidying up the scene to suggest a burglary. I wondered if all Arch Druids were as protective of their underlings as she.
I finally called the police department and asked to speak to Jorgeson. He came on the line with a martyred, “Yes, Mrs. Malloy?”
“Has Malthea Hendlerson arrived there yet?”
“The one who insisted on singing some song about holly and ivy when she gave a statement yesterday? The one who claimed her mother’d had an affair with Archduke Francis Ferdinand just prior to his assassination? Her?”
“’Fraid so,” I said, then related what she’d said.
He was silent for a long moment. “Jeez, what with all the cop shows on television these days, I’d like to think civilians have some idea of the word ‘tampering.’ Which planet has that woman been living on for the last fifty years? How could she calmly wash the damn glasses and wipe prints off the bottle? Gad, we’re lucky she didn’t haul the body upstairs and tuck it in bed!”
“Or bury it in the woods,” I said, grimacing as I realized how effortlessly I could envision her doing it. “In any case she’s admitted what she did, and it explains a lot of inconsistencies with Roy’s description of what went on in the kitchen…with one exception. She never mentioned the gun.”
“So the kid took it with him. As it happens, there’s a major inconsistency you haven’t heard yet. I checked with the medical examiner and there was virtually no alcohol in the victim’s blood. He hadn’t been drinking brandy when he was shot.”
“What do you think that means?”
“I’d like to ask Roy Tate that very same question,” Jorgeson said with a trace of acerbity. “Everybody on patrol is keeping an eye out for him. The campus security guys are checking the buildings, but it’s gonna take them all week because so many of them are off duty when the college is closed. We’ll find him sooner or later, and he’d better have an explanation.”
I told him where Malthea might be, then hung up. Malthea and Roy had both attested to the presence of the brandy bottle and glasses in the kitchen, and Roy had said he smelled alcohol on Nicholas’s breath. But unless the lab report was wrong, Nicholas hadn’t been drinking. He could have been pretending to be drunk, I supposed, and hoping to bully Roy into joining him.
Or Roy and Malthea were lying about this one particular detail. Was everything else they’d said lies, too? There were more than enough members of the grove for a full-fledged conspiracy, presuming three Druids (Malthea, Fern, and Sullivan), two Wiccans (Morning Rose and Gilda), and one satanist (Roy) could collaborate without coming to blows. Based on what I’d seen and heard, it did not seem likely.
I felt sorry for Jorgeson. He clearly had no clue how to deal with his less than conventional witnesses. Standard police procedure was no match for someone who’d casually stepped over a corpse to put away a brandy decanter—and hadn’t thought it was worthy of mention until the following day.
When the phone rang, I eyed it unhappily. Malthea calling to say the gun was in the dishwasher? Jorgeson calling to report that Roy’d been killed in a shootout with the campus cops? Gilda calling to berate me for not going to her trailer? Peter calling to announce that he and Leslie were getting remarried in the Winter Palace, with canine attendants?
Scolding myself for this ultimate petty thought, I picked up the receiver and chirped, “Book Depot.”
“Mother,” said Caron, her voice low and hoarse, “can you pick me up at the mall?”
“Sure. At eight o’clock—right? Which entrance?”
“Now, in front of Sears.”
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Did you get fired?”
“It’s a lot worse than that. Please hurry.”
She hung up. I did the same, locked the store, and drove to the mall, speculating about what she’d find worse than getting fired and having to sacrifice her layaway purchases.
I navigated through the crowded parking lot and pulled up in front of the appointed entrance. Caron was leaning against the wall, her arms wrapped around herself and her face lowered as if she could will herself into invisibility. She seemed to be having a degree of success; none of the shoppers streaming in and out the doors so much as glanced at her.
I rolled down the window and called, “Caron?”
She jerked her head up as though a bullet had hit the pseudo-stuccoed wall, then focused in on me and darted to the car. As soon as she’d slammed the door, she said, “Drive!”
I glanced at her, but she’d bent over and her face was hidden. “Okay,” I said with a great deal more composure than I felt. I worked my way back to the stoplight and eventually escaped from the parking lot.
“You can sit up now,” I said.
“What’s the point in doing that?” she said, her voice muffled.
“Well, we’re not being pursued by a car packed with heavily armed gangsters. Should I be watching for a police car?”
“No.” She sat up, ran her fingers through her hair, and let out a grandiose sigh. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Did you get fired?”
“I think you can safely assume I will be within a matter of hours. Before I go on, you have to promise not to start yelling at me—okay?”
I turned into the bowling alley lot and stopped. “I promise not to yell at you. It’s only a part-time job, dear, and you hated it. Some of the stores will hire temps after Christmas to help handle returns. You can find something.”
“What I need to find, Mother, is a lawyer.”
Chapter 8
I sat on the sofa, reading the document that Caron had taken out of her purse. “What’s MultiPackaging, Incorporated, in Dallas?”
Caron was draped across a chair opposite me, her fingertips brushing the floor and her eyes closed for maximum effect. “That’s the all-powerful home office, and it’s more likely to be in Oz than Texas. They run Santa’s Workshops in malls all over the South and Midwest. They also do this kind of crap with the Easter Bunny, as well as studio portraits and videotaping of everything from birthday parties and weddings to class reunions. You can hire them to come into the delivery room. That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“North Hills Mall is down as a defendant, too. Who’s Winifred Portmeyer?”
“Mrs. Claus. I’m surprised they didn’t go after Santa himself, although the only thing he did was watch.”
“That’s all I did,” I pointed out, “and I made the defendants’ list as your guardian.” I began to read aloud. “‘Comes now Morgan G. Connolly, by and through her guardians, Suzanne and Eric L. Connolly, and for their complaint, state and allege the following, to-wit: that the parties are—’”
“Residents of the county, blah, blah, blah,” Caron said, sagging further into the chair until she resembled an afghan. “What matters is they’re saying that I committed assault and battery, that Morgan was bruised so badly and in such a state of hysteria that she had to be treated by a doctor. Can you believe this?”
I continued reading. “‘The plaintiff suffered various bruises and lacerations and other injuries to her person for which she is entitled to a judgment against the defendants herein in the amount of…” My throat squeezed up so tightly that I couldn’t say the figure.
“One million dollars,” Caron said for me. “Go on to the next page, Mother.”
I forced myself to turn the page. “‘That, also, the plaintiff suffered great emotional distress and has been unable to sleep or attend school, which was intentionally inflicted upon her by the defendants, for which she is entitled to unspecified punitive damages in an amount to be determined by a jury.’ This happened less than twenty-four hours ago! So she had a bad night and wasn’t in the mood this morning for whatever fancy private school she attends. How can they claim
she’s been permanently traumatized? I’ll bet right now she’s contentedly eating ice cream and watching Disney videos.”
“Or ripping limbs off her dolls.”
I tossed the complaint on the coffee table. “What about Inez?”
“She is such a wimp. She wanted to leave with me, but Mrs. Claus went ballistic and made her promise to work through Christmas Eve.”
“What did Mrs. Claus say to you?”
Caron’s lip inched out. “Well, after the guy shoved the papers at us and left, she grabbed my arm, dragged me into the employee lounge, and started in on me about how it was all my fault. I reminded her that she’d just stood there like a tick on a reindeer’s rump when the brat slipped by me. The conversation went downhill after that. I tore off my antlers and said I was leaving, and she said not to come back until she’s talked to her supervisor.”
“I’d better call a lawyer,” I said, gloomily wondering about prevailing legal fees. Although Caron had come perilously close to the brink of criminal charges, she’d never before taken a plunge into the abyss. The summons and complaint stated that we had thirty days to respond, and I doubted an articulate, artfully composed letter from me would suffice.
“Is there anything to eat?” asked Caron, sounding like the last orphan in line at the workhouse.
I took some money out of my billfold. “Why don’t you go pick up Chinese? The car key’s on the kitchen counter.”
“Yeah, okay.” She curled her lip at the document, then went through the kitchen and out the back door.
I fixed myself a cup of tea, and then looked up the telephone number of the only lawyer I knew in Farberville. It was hardly my lucky day, but Franklin Adamson was in his office and unencumbered with a client.
“Merry Christmas, Claire,” he said. “How’s everything? Business brisk?”
“I suppose,” I said, then told him about the summons and complaint. “The whole thing is absurd,” I added. “The child may have a bruise or two, but she definitely didn’t suffer lacerations. Okay, so she skinned her knee when she fell down while running to her mother. They’re making it sound as if Caron chased her around the mall with a carving knife.”
“Welcome to the wacky world of litigation. Who’s their attorney?”
I flipped to the second page. “The child’s father, Eric L. Connolly. I suppose that’s why this was filed at the approximate speed of light.”
“The holiday season’s usually slow for us. I’m trying to think if I’ve met Connolly. The name’s familiar. I’ll see what I can find out about him. I’m going to switch you back to my receptionist so you can make an appointment. Bring Caron and the papers.”
“Franklin, damn it,” I said, “are you saying there’s a grain of validity in this? I can’t believe it. The child threw a tantrum because she didn’t get her way—and we’re being sued? If anyone deserves to be sued, it’s Suzanne and Eric L. for raising an ill-mannered, egotistical monster!”
“Vent if you must, but make an appointment,” he said, “and whatever you do, don’t initiate any contact with the child or her parents.”
I made an appointment for the next morning at ten o’clock, then decided tea was inadequate for the occasion. I poured a stiff drink, returned to the sofa, and retrieved the complaint. I could have gone to the store and reopened for an hour, but my mood was vile enough to frighten potential customers, who would then sue me for “great emotional distress” and future bouts of insomnia brought on by the lack of mystery novels on the bedside table. Heaven help me if one stubbed a toe while fetching a magazine.
Caron returned with an array of cardboard cartons and very little change. “I’m not hungry right now,” she said as she unloaded the bags. “Inez said she’ll call me as soon as she gets home. I don’t know how she’s supposed to deal with the kids by herself, but you know what? I don’t care. I don’t even care if a pointy-headed elf topples off the roof of the gazebo and embeds itself in Mrs. Claus’s skull. It would be an improvement.”
I was heartened to hear a more characteristic edge in her voice, but she’d not spoken in capital letters in two days. I smiled and said, “I’ll put the food away and you can warm it up later.”
“The prisoner had a last meal of moo goo gai pan and sesame beef,” she intoned, then retreated to her room. The door closed with a tiny click.
I reread the complaint until I could recite every word of it, from the header to the date the notary public’s commission expired. I wanted to call Franklin back and say, “You were kidding—right? No judge is going to even tolerate this nonsense in his courtroom—right? Oh, you had me going there for a minute, but we both know you were teasing me—right?”
Wrong.
An hour later, the telephone rang. I waited, assuming Caron would answer it, but it continued to ring. I picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”
“Mrs. Malloy, it’s Jorgeson. We’ve got a problem.”
“You have a problem, and I have a problem. However, we do not have the same problem unless you’re being sued for a million dollars.”
“Huh?”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“First, we found Malthea Hendlerson where you said and brought her in. She told me the same thing she told you. When I asked her about the brandy bottle, she insisted it had been on the table with one glass and the other glass was on the floor. She couldn’t explain why the lab didn’t find alcohol in the victim’s blood and stuck to her story. There wasn’t anything to do but let her leave.”
“Is that your problem, Jorgeson? I could have told you that’s what would happen.”
“No, I was just telling you. The problem is another of those dadburned Druids. I put a man out at Nicholas Chunder’s place to watch for Roy Tate in case he went to his apartment or tried to get the hearse. The officer caught Gilda D’Orcher trying to break into the main house. We’ve got her in custody, but she won’t say anything except that she wants to talk to you. She’s kept it up for a couple of hours. Doesn’t want a lawyer, doesn’t want to make a call, doesn’t want coffee or anything to eat.”
“Perhaps she’ll change her mind after spending the night in a cell,” I said without sympathy. “Your amenities are not on par with a luxury hotel. Give her a couple of prostitutes and drug addicts for cellmates.”
He was silent for a minute. “I thought you’d want to talk to her, find out why she was breaking into the house. Listen, I’ve kept my end of the bargain. Lieutenant Rosen called this afternoon and I didn’t mention your name when I gave him a synopsis of the case. I can’t say what I would have done if he demanded particulars, but he seemed kinda distracted and didn’t press me. This business with his mother must be getting him down.”
“That would explain it,” I said through clenched teeth. “I have an appointment in the morning. If Gilda hasn’t capitulated by noon or so, call me at the bookstore and I’ll think about it. Right now I have a headache and entirely too many other things to worry about—and not one of them is Lieutenant Rosen’s mother.”
I nibbled at the Chinese food and tried to finish a novel, but I found myself searching the complaint for fine print that would expose it as an idle threat or an unamusing practical joke. Lawyers were not notorious for that sort of thing, I told myself.
By eight o’clock I’d made little headway with the food or the fine print. My headache had eased, but I suspected it would rekindle itself in Franklin’s office in the morning. I was considering a long, steamy bath when the doorbell rang.
I opened the front door and found myself looking at an unfamiliar woman. She was in her thirties, with short dark hair, a slender body clothed in a gray silk suit, and the resolute demeanor of someone intent on selling beauty products. “Yes?” I said.
“Mrs. Malloy, I’m Winifred Portmeyer. We need to talk. May I come in?”
She was already inside before she’d finished the question, rendering it moot. She sat down, crossed her legs, and opened a briefcase. “Is Caron home? She nee
ds to be included in this discussion since it affects her, too.”
“I’ll get her.” As I went down the hallway, I recalled my brief impression of Mrs. Claus bent over the camera and then straightening up to glare at Caron. I’d been right about the white wig—and wrong about the ample rump. I tapped on Caron’s door, then opened it and in a low voice, said, “Mrs. Claus is in the living room.”
“That’s not funny,” Caron said without looking up from the magazine spread across her lap.
“Sorry, dear, but she really is and she wants to talk to you.”
“Tell her you came in here and found me hanging from the light fixture, my eyes bulging and my tongue blue. Threaten to sue her if she doesn’t leave.”
“Please come into the living room so we can get this over,” I said. “I assure you I’m not any more delighted at the opportunity than you are, but she seems like the sort who will sit there all night.”
“Let her.”
After a few more exchanges of this nature, Caron threw down the magazine and trailed me back to the living room.
“Hello, Caron,” the woman said smoothly. “Why don’t you and your mother sit there on the sofa? Shall we get started?”
I sat down, but Caron remained standing behind the sofa, her arms crossed and her lower lip trembling. “Has Caron been fired?” I asked, attempting to regain some control of the situation, since we were in my apartment and not the corporate boardroom in Dallas.
Ms. Portmeyer nodded. “Yes, she has. I’ll calculate her pay and she can pick up the check tomorrow. The cost of the hood will be deducted, as well as having the tunic dry-cleaned for the next reindeer.”
“Good luck finding one,” muttered Caron. “Talk about a stupid, demeaning—”
“And the lawsuit?” I cut in quickly. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said. She rummaged through papers in her briefcase, but as far as I could tell, she was doing so only to impress us with her professionalism. “I spoke with Mr. Longsterger in the Dallas office about this. He’ll have to consult the legal department, but in previous cases of a like nature, MultiPack has settled with the plaintiff in order to avoid negative publicity. We wouldn’t want the media to pounce on a story about someone suing Santa, would we? It could have a devastating effect on children too young to make the distinction.”
