A Holly, Jolly Murder

by JOAN HESSS

  “Where do you think the bottle came from?”

  “I wasn’t in the mood to worry about it,” he said, sounding vaguely ashamed. “I didn’t bother to use the padlock on my locker. Anyone who would steal my clothes needs them a lot worse than I do.” He held up his foot and wiggled his toes. “It might be time to go by the thrift shop and treat myself to a Christmas present. Maybe I can find argyles this time.”

  “I wish I had some of my late husband’s clothes,” I said, “but I gave everything away a long time ago. How much did Caron promise to pay you?”

  He tugged on his beard, surreptitiously watching me as he pretended to think. Then he sighed and said, “She didn’t say, and I’d have settled for a couple of dollars. However, you’ve been so kind and generous that I won’t accept anything. Like I said, most people won’t even let me inside. I guess they’re afraid I have fleas or lice. I do the best I can, but sometimes the shelter has to turn people away. Lots of women and children on the streets this time of year.”

  “Hey, Ed,” I said, “would you like to take a bath here?”

  “I don’t want to impose, Ms. Malloy. You tell Caron that she can get in touch with me through the shelter if she has any questions. You two have a real good Christmas.” He picked up the boots and started toward the door. “I’ll put these on when I get outside. Thanks for the sandwiches and coffee. It’s comforting to know there are still some decent people on the planet.”

  “Wait,” I said as I scrambled to my feet. “It’s not an imposition. There’s a perfectly adequate bathtub begging to be used. Please let me do this small favor.”

  “You sure?”

  I caught his arm and gently tugged him back inside. “I’m sure, Ed. You’ll find clean towels in the closet and six or seven different types of shampoo. Caron never knows from day to day if she’ll wake up with dry hair, oily hair, dandruff, or split ends. Help yourself and take your time.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I worry about split ends, too.”

  Once he was in the bathroom and the water was gushing into the bathtub, I made sandwiches out of the remaining bread and cheese and left them in a sack next to his backpack. I crept back to the bathroom door and listened to contented splashing, then went downstairs and knocked yet again on the retired professor’s door.

  “You’re still early,” he said, waggling his finger at me. “Tomorrow at seven.”

  “Do you have any argyle socks?”

  He looked blankly at me. “Argyle socks?”

  “Yes. I’ll replace them as soon as I have a chance, but I need a pair right now and it’s too late to go to the store.”

  “Argyle socks?” he repeated.

  “Santa Claus needs them.”

  “He does?”

  “His are so full of holes that nine of his toes poke through. Please hurry; he’ll be finished with his bath before long.”

  He licked his lips. “Santa, who is in need of argyle socks, is taking a bath in your apartment. Is that an accurate assessment of the situation?”

  I suppose he thought I’d been into a pitcher of my own creation, but I was reluctant to explain. “That, sir, is an accurate assessment of the situation. Do you have argyle socks or not?”

  “Shall I wrap them?”

  “No, that’s pushing it. Just get the socks.”

  “Anything else?”

  I thought it over for a moment. “A sweater would be nice.”

  “Argyle socks and a sweater,” he murmured. “Does Santa need underwear and pajamas as well?”

  The retiree looked like the sort to wear pajamas decorated with snowmen. “No pajamas,” I said, “but underwear would be greatly appreciated. And a pair of lined gloves, if you have a spare.”

  “Mrs. Malloy,” he began portentously, as though preparing to scold me for a poor semester test result, then shrugged. “Argyle socks, underwear, a sweater, and gloves. Any preference for the color of the sweater?”

  Caron had gone through a brief period as a color consultant, but I hadn’t paid much attention. “Just something heavy,” I said meekly.

  When I was back upstairs with the booty, I knocked on the bathroom door and told Ed the clothing would be on the floor outside the door. I then went into the kitchen, gazed longingly at the bottle of scotch I’d concealed behind the toaster, poured myself a cup of coffee, and called the police station. Jorgeson was not there, but the dispatcher promised to leave him a message that I’d called.

  I was heating the entrée when Caron came in through the back door. “I’d like to speak to you,” I said. “It seems you’ve been very busy for someone who was supposedly shopping at the mall.”

  “It was really crowded out there. Inez was so tired that I took her straight home. I’m famished. Will you stick something in the microwave for me?”

  She made it out of the kitchen before I could reply. I was dutifully looking in the freezer when I heard her shriek; seconds later she skittered into the kitchen, and in a scandalized voice, whispered, “There’s a man in the bathroom. He’s taking a bath.”

  “It’s the most logical room in which to engage in that particular activity,” I said. “Do you want lasagna or beef tips with gravy.”

  “Mother, there’s a man in the bathroom.”

  “You told me that, dear. Which will it be—lasagna or beef tips?”

  “Why is he there?”

  “Didn’t you just say that he’s taking a bath?” I said blandly. “If he were doing it in your bedroom, your alarm would be justified.”

  “Mother!”

  I closed the freezer door. “You didn’t recognize him?”

  “No, I didn’t recognize him—and I didn’t stand in the doorway and introduce myself. Who is he?”

  “Santa Claus.”

  “Why won’t you answer my…” Her eyes widened. “Oh, that Santa Claus. How did he get this address? All I said in the note was that I’d go by the shelter in the morning.”

  “He found it in the telephone directory. How did you find his address, or those of the two girls who preceded you as reindeer at Santa’s Workshop?”

  “The shelter was a lucky guess,” she mumbled, nervously watching the doorway that led to the hall. “I guess Ms. Portmeyer must have said something about the other girls, like where they lived and stuff.”

  “Did you have any trouble finding the little town?”

  “Why do you think I went there?” she shot back, no doubt imagining herself tied to a stake as flames began to crackle around her feet. “I was trying to find a Christmas present for Peter. It was unbelievable at the mall. Inez said they took more than two hundred and fifty photographs today. It’s no wonder she had a headache.”

  She’d managed to evade every one of my questions thus far. I took a deep breath and tried again. “What are you up to?”

  “I can’t tell you. Just trust me, okay?”

  “I wish I could, but—” I broke off as the bathroom door opened and a disembodied hand scooped up the pile of clothing. I bit back a somewhat hysterical giggle and reopened the freezer door. “Do you still want something to eat?”

  “Later,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “What did he tell you?”

  I gave her a recap of Ed’s story, and then threw in the anonymous ex-reindeer’s for good measure. “Did Inez search Ms. Portmeyer’s briefcase?” I asked. “Is that how you learned their names and addresses?”

  “Not exactly. I didn’t see a sleigh out in the yard when I got home, so maybe I should offer to drive Santa back to the shelter. Is that okay?”

  “Whatever,” I said, conceding defeat as graciously as I could. I retreated to the living room, and was gazing blindly at the Christmas tree when Ed, aka Santa Claus, came into the room. His hair was combed back, his beard trimmed and glistening. The sweater was tight but serviceable.

  “Argyles,” he said appreciatively. “Practically new, too.”

  “Caron’s back, and will drive you to the shelter if that’s where you’re going.”
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  He nodded. “It’s too cold to sleep outside, so I guess I’d better see if they’ve found any spare cots.” He gathered his things and went back through the apartment. I listened to a sibilant conversation in the kitchen, followed by the sound of the door closing. I bleakly wondered if I should have insisted that he sleep on the sofa. However, altruism has its limits—and allowing an unknown man to stay in the apartment overnight was beyond the pale.

  I poured the drink to which I was entitled and settled down once again. Not a silent night, nor a holy one. Malthea was in the ICU unit, and Gilda and Roy were loosed on a populace unschooled in spells and demons. Caron would continue to be evasive until it suited her own purposes to be otherwise. Ed would end up under a bridge. My downstairs neighbor was apt to be on the telephone with the landlord, doing his best to terminate the lease so he could move out during the night. Furthermore, I began morosely, then caught myself and took a gulp of scotch.

  No furthermores permitted.

  I forced myself to think about what Gilda had said. Nicholas had called Sullivan and had a conversation that left at least one of them angry. Later Sullivan had gone to the house. As had Fern. As had Gilda. As had Roy. As had Malthea, or so she’d said. Only one participant thus far had not yet admitted to a late-night visit.

  I looked up the Sawyers’ telephone number and dialed it. When a child answered, I asked to speak to its mother.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Someone who will sneak into your bedroom and shave your head if you don’t put your mother on the line,” I said matter-of-factly. I don’t think I meant it.

  The receiver clattered as it hit the floor. Moments later Morning Rose said, “Hello?”

  I identified myself, then said, “I was trying to get everything straight in my mind about the night Nicholas was killed. You went back there, didn’t you?”

  “Wait a moment,” she said, then yelled at her children to go to their rooms or face the specter of no rice cakes with peanut butter. When she came back on, she sounded fatigued. “I was there, but not at Nicholas’s house. I was worried about Roy. He was positively gray when the party broke up. I didn’t want him to take off, or start in on drugs and do something he might regret. I knocked on his door, but he wouldn’t let me in. I guess I should have beaten down the door and stayed with him until he came to his senses.”

  “This was when Sullivan thought you were in the backyard?”

  “I guess so. He was in his office working on an article about contemporary paganism for some anthropology journal. Why are you asking me this?”

  “Symmetry,” I murmured.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Malloy?”

  I could tell she wanted to ask me if I shared Roy’s fondness for Herbal Ecstasy or more potent hallucinogens. “I’m dandy, Morning Rose. Is your husband available?”

  “No, he left about an hour ago to get some research material from his office. He’s probably still there playing games on his computer. I’ve forbidden him to play any kind of militaristic games in the house; it gives the children the wrong ideas about global harmony and universal cooperation. Are you familiar with the writings of Marx and Engels, Mrs. Malloy?”

  “Long before you donned your first environmentally correct diaper, Morning Rose.” I hung up and sat back, wondering if I should contact each and every member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to find out who else had returned to Primrose Hill on the night in question. The crew of the SS Enterprise. The cast of whatever constipated musical was currently reigning on Broadway.

  Caron seemed to be having problems finding the Salvation Army shelter, or perhaps in disentangling herself from Santa Claus. I wasn’t especially worried about her, except in a generic sense. No police officers had loomed at the door thus far. No ambulances had wailed in the distance. Ed may not have been a CEO or a part-time brain surgeon, but I was confident that he was basically benevolent. If I was wrong, he would be sorry if he made an attempt to intimidate Caron into forking over money. He’d have better luck trying to wheedle her into promising him her firstborn child.

  I listened to classical music drifting through the vents along the floorboards as I wandered around the room. It was not yet ten o’clock, and I knew no visions of sugarplums would be dancing in my head anytime soon. The telephone sat in splendid silence, but I kept glancing at it as if it might leap across the carpet and attach itself to my neck like a vampire bat.

  I finally decided to walk off my tension. I wrote a note for Caron, then put on my coat and headed across the campus lawn. For the record, I was not worried that any of the Druids would spring out of the shadows and wrestle me to the ground, salivating wildly and wielding a butcher knife. That only happens in fiction.

  I walked along the sidewalk, my hands in my pockets and my face furrowed unattractively as I tried to make some sense of the muddle. The most obvious—and simplistic—solution was to accept Roy’s confession and write him off as a deeply disturbed kid. But why hadn’t Malthea protested? Why hadn’t she responded with indignation instead of doing everything she could to bolster Roy’s various stories?

  Moving briskly, I veered around the dark student union and headed in the general direction of the law school. The cold wind stung my ears and chapped my cheeks, but the sheer sense of motion felt good, as if I were accomplishing some minor Herculean task. And, yes, I seemed to be closing in on the social sciences building, where I might find a certain person blipping evil invaders on his computer.

  There were several lights on inside the building. I went inside, paused to rub my hands together until they tingled, and then found a placard listing office numbers. Sullivan had not warranted an office of his own, but I was familiar enough with the ways of academia to suspect he would have a cubicle in the vicinity of the department. I took the elevator to the third floor.

  The floor was adequately lit but very quiet. After several moments of questioning my wisdom—and determining that it was, as always, impeccably correct—I tried a couple of corridors and finally found one emblazoned with multicolored flyers announcing glorious opportunities to sift sand in Turkey or study the richly diverse subcultures of Paris and Rome. Airfare not included.

  The sound of clicking keys indicated that at least one creature was stirring. I went through the main office and into a large room with tables lining the walls, a hodgepodge of chairs, stacks of papers and folders, a grid of overflowing mailboxes, and a graduate student hunched in front of a computer. On the screen entities resembling Ping-Pong balls drifted downward. One exploded.

  Sullivan chortled. “Gotcha, you bastard.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said.

  He spun around and gaped at me. “I—I didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing here?”

  “Morning Rose thought you might be here. Do you mind if we talk?”

  “I’ve already told you that I don’t care what happens to Roy. He confessed, didn’t he? Why isn’t that enough? Are the authorities waiting until he kills someone else before they arrest him?”

  “They’d very much like to arrest him at this point,” I said, “but he’s unavailable. Why did you go to Nicholas’s house after the disastrous party?”

  My abrupt change of topic proved effective; he stared at me for a long moment, seemingly doing his best to ascertain what I knew—and what I didn’t. I waited with the appraising stare of a distaff Perry Mason.

  “Who says I did?” he said carefully.

  “That doesn’t matter, does it? Nicholas called you around seven o’clock. The conversation ended abruptly. You went there later to confront him.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Perry Mason’s witnesses always broke down on the stand and confessed seconds before the commercial. Sullivan must not have been a fan of the show. “Yes, you did,” I said chidingly. “A little after eleven o’clock, wouldn’t you say? You came across the pasture on foot.”

  “So that was Gilda,” he said, putting his elbow on the table and massaging his
forehead with his fingertips. “I didn’t think she saw me.”

  “Well, she did. What happened after that?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions, Mrs. Malloy, but I will say that I did not set foot in Nicholas’s house.” He leaned forward and punched a button to shut down the computer, then stood up. “I’m going home. If the police want to talk to me, that’s where I’ll be. If you want to talk to me, too damn bad.”

  “Did Nicholas find out some dirty little secret about you?” I persevered as I followed him back into the corridor. “Did you falsify your résumé or forget to mention a felony conviction?”

  “You are more than welcome to verify every name, date, and letter of recommendation included in my résumé. In the meantime, will you please just leave us alone? The children are already upset as it is. Nicholas allowed Cosmos to play on his computer. He gave Rainbow a robe that was supposedly an exact replica of those worn by Druid priestesses two thousand years ago. Morning Rose is worried sick about Roy. I’m more worried about what Dr. Tate will say when he gets back from Borneo and hears that I threw his son out of my house.” He locked the office door, put the key in his pocket, and walked rapidly toward the elevator. “I have nothing else to say.”

  Amateur sleuths cannot be bashful. “If you didn’t go there to speak to Nicholas, why did you? Certainly not to make sure Roy was not unduly disturbed, since you’ve made it clear you’re not concerned about him. Morning Rose was, though. Were you following her?”

  “Nothing else, Mrs. Malloy. Which word is causing you problems?”

  I glanced at the lighted numeral above the elevator doors, trying to assess how much time I had. There were other people on the move in the building, but with only five floors, time was of the essence. “Morning Rose said she went to Roy’s apartment but he wouldn’t let her in.”

  “My wife was in the backyard, capering around stark naked and chanting. I was in my office at home.”

  “You just admitted Gilda saw you.”