Cozy Christmas Shorts

by Halliday, Gemma

  "The first death was an accident. A brief exposure to the cold, simply meant as a demonstration of what would happen if he didn't go along with my requests, triggered a heart attack."

  As he spoke he moved a step closer to Helen, obviously trying to herd her into the snow, where, presumably, she would fall and freeze to death. She wasn't exactly sure how he was going to keep anyone from noticing she was missing until that happened, but she preferred not to dwell on her own death. Better to come up with a plan to find the secret opening in the fence.

  "After that bit of luck," he said, "I did some research and learned about the increased mortality rates in the winter and how I could use that fact to cover my tracks."

  Helen made a mental note to apologize to Rebecca for not taking her warning more seriously. She tried to remember if Betty and Josie had said exactly where the secret opening in the fence was. Her memory still wasn't quite back to normal after her bout with the lupus side-effect known as a fog for the way it temporarily affected cognitive functions. Maybe by the time Helen got to the fence there'd be someone smoking on the other side who would let her in.

  "I'm not that easy to kill," Helen said. "I don't have a heart condition, and someone's bound to come looking for me before I could possibly die of hypothermia."

  "I've had to adjust my modus operandi just for you." He came a little closer. "You're going to race off in a fit of pique because I wouldn't agree with you on the judging. I'll follow you, of course, but I'm so weak and frail that I couldn't get to you in time. You weren't looking where you were going, and you hit the stone wall with so much momentum that you tumbled over it and fell down the cliff."

  That scenario certainly helped with the decision about which path Helen should take to the fence: stay as far away from that stone wall as possible. Bracing herself for the cold she was about to step into, she turned and moved cautiously from the cleared patio and into the snow, using her cane to keep her balance. A ski pole would have been better, with a sharp tip that would bite into the ground, instead of the slightly rounded rubber tip that threatened to slide out from under her on the slippery surface.

  "That's the wrong direction," Mr. Wharton complained, as he stepped into the snow on a parallel path to her footprints, as if he were chasing her after the fact and trying to intercept her before she could go toward the cliff's edge. "I guess it doesn't really matter. There's really nowhere for you to run, and the cold is going to make your brain sluggish as it conserves resources to keep your core warm."

  She kept moving forward. It was just this kind of taunting that had gotten the fictional gingerbread man caught. It might do the same thing now if Mr. Wharton was so busy gloating that he didn't realize she had an escape route.

  "Ironic, isn't it?" He kept pace with her, carefully remaining slightly behind her, so he could adjust his tracks to match hers. "You're going to die by falling from a height, just like in the gingerbread entry you're so enamored of."

  "No one's going to believe that I threw myself off a cliff," Helen said, continuing her slow but steady progress to the fence.

  "I've got a Plan B. I'd been planning to throw suspicion on my dear Kolya if anyone got too near the truth. You were right about the shoes, by the way. They are his. But I was wearing them in the pictures. He's got much bigger feet than I do, so I had to wear four pairs of heavy socks so they wouldn't fall off while I posed. It's a little annoying that I need to throw him under the bus so soon, but there are other nurses."

  "Especially since you're not sick and don't really need any nursing services."

  "But it makes such a nice disguise."

  Helen had reached the fence, but she couldn't hear anyone on the other side stomping their feet to keep warm while they smoked. She was going to have to find the opening herself. The lack of footprints had served her well so far, but now it would have been nice to have a track that led her straight to the opening.

  She turned to face Mr. Wharton and inched along the fence, keeping one hand behind her back to feel for any wiggle room. She'd better find the opening soon before she lost what little feeling she had left in her fingers.

  About six feet out from the building she felt the fence move beneath her hands, and she almost stumbled backwards.

  "Keep moving," Mr. Wharton said. "We're running out of time. Dear Kolya should be wondering where I am already, and he's much too diligent to simply wait for me to return. If you don't get moving right now, I'm coming over there. You're already too weak to stop me."

  She was running out of time, and not just because Mr. Wharton was losing patience and preparing to take more direct action. She wasn't sure what new story he'd come up with for why he'd carried her to the cliff and thrown her off it, but if he succeeded she wouldn't have a chance to point out to Detective Peterson the inconsistencies in the story.

  She needed to get through the fence in the next couple minutes before the cold did render her as weak as Mr. Wharton believed she was. She couldn't rush it, though, or he'd realize what she was doing and simply overpower her.

  A distraction would be good. Something like Kolya returning in the dining room to search for his patient. She couldn't count on him showing up in time, but all she needed to do was convince Mr. Wharton to turn and look, giving her a few seconds' head start through the fence.

  She stared in the direction of the dining room windows and, just in case Mr. Wharton didn't notice, she pointed. "Kolya's looking for us." She raised her voice. "We're out here! Help!"

  Mr. Wharton turned to look, and Helen spun to shove the loose fence section. It toppled, and she almost followed it to the ground. Even as she stumbled toward the door into the nursing home, she heard voices shouting behind her. One belonged to Tate, and the other had Kolya's distinctive accent.

  She didn't wait, in case she was hallucinating, but forced her frozen hands to push the icy handle. She scrambled into the blessedly overheated hallway where her feet gave out on her, and she slid to the floor as the door shut behind her. Completely drained, her eyes closed, and she huddled where she'd fallen, listening to the skirmish outside.

  A moment later, footsteps came racing through the door, and someone knelt beside her. She forced her eyelids up, and for the briefest moment she saw overwhelming panic on Tate's usually unreadable face.

  Apparently realizing she was still alive, Tate let out a long breath and shook his head ruefully. "If you didn't want to spend Christmas with my family, you could have told me. You didn't have to get yourself killed just so you could be alone for the holidays."

  * * *

  An hour later Detective Peterson had handed Mr. Wharton over to the state authorities, and Kolya had gone with them to give an account of the times when both he and Mr. Wharton had been out of town. Martha had already arranged for the maintenance crew to fix the fence, much to the chagrin of the illicit smokers.

  Helen had been ushered back into the dining room so the nursing home's on-staff nurse practitioner could wrap her in blankets, take her blood pressure, and check for any signs of shock or frostbite. Helen would have told her she was perfectly fine, except her teeth were still chattering, and she was shaking all over from a combination of the cold and the aftermath of an adrenaline rush.

  Tate had stayed with her until she'd been declared stable, and then he'd left to reassure Betty and Josie that everything was fine.

  Edie took his place, approaching with a cautious smile.

  "You know," she said. "Before we realized you'd disappeared, I was looking at the finalists again. The barn dance scene really does have the best execution. I think it should get first prize."

  There was no point in forcing Edie to eat any more crow than that. It was enough that they could finally declare they'd reached a unanimous decision, even if it was only because one of the judges had been arrested. "We should tell Geoff who the winners are so he can write his story."

  "I'll email the information to him, if you want," Edie said. "He raced out of here as soon as he heard that
Detective Peterson had a killer in custody. Muttered something about knowing better than to get anywhere with a 500-yard radius of you."

  "Then I guess we should go out and announce the winners. The barn dance in first place, the light-hanging in second, and the…" Helen paused, trying to remember the politically correct term for the gingerbread man who'd been crushed to death.

  Edie finished it for her. "The tree-falling scene in third."

  "Exactly." Helen tried to stand up, only to find that her joints had stiffened and her head was still a little light.

  "Can I help?"

  Edie would never be one of Helen's best friends, but there was no real harm in her. Her expression, for once, seemed sincere, a mixture of apology and a plea for acceptance.

  "My cane," Helen said. "I'm not sure where it ended up."

  Edie's face broke into a genuine smile as she nodded at the table where the cane was just out of Helen's reach. "Let me get it for you."

  "Thank you." Helen took the cane and was able to stand with its support, although it was a challenge to keep the blanket wrapped around her shoulders while one hand was occupied with her cane. She wasn't ready to leave the blanket behind quite yet, even in the overheated nursing home.

  Edie stayed beside her, hovering but not actually getting in Helen's way as they went to the activity room. Helen stopped in the entranceway, unable to step inside because of the incredible number of people jammed into the room. The dancing had stopped, even though the Peggy Lee version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" was playing. There simply wasn't enough room left for even the most restrained dancing.

  Martha managed to push her way through the crowd to ask if the judges had reached a decision. Helen nodded, since she doubted her voice could be heard over the background noise.

  "Good," Martha shouted, and there was the promise of forgiveness in her eyes, for being involuntarily dragged into Helen's battle with Edie. "Let's make the announcement."

  Martha gestured for Detective Peterson, who was chatting with his uncle, to come over and join them. He let out a sharp whistle, and the loud chattering dwindled into silence. Everyone looked at Helen and Edie expectantly.

  "You go ahead," Helen said to Edie.

  Edie didn't disguise her eagerness to be the one to make the announcement, and she was so enthusiastic about each of the entries that no one in the audience would have ever guessed how hard she had lobbied for different rankings as part of her support for the now-discredited Mr. Wharton.

  With the announcement that the barn dance had won the top prize, Detective Peterson hooted and pushed his way through the crowd to congratulate his uncle, who had apparently been part of the winning team. Helen overheard a number of cheerful people stating it was an honor just to be in the semi-finals, but the top three prize winners were ecstatic, bouncing around the room as much as their physical abilities and the crush of the crowd permitted.

  For once, Helen admitted to exhaustion and let Edie, the natural-born politician, do the mingling and one-on-one congratulating. The crowd let Helen through so she could go join Betty and Josie, who'd somehow managed to claim a comfortable chair for her.

  Betty draped the finished crime scene scarf around Helen's neck, and Josie popped a warm, wool, black tweed hat on her head.

  Josie returned to her seat. "So, where's Tate."

  Helen shook her head. "No idea. He left as soon as the nurse practitioner confirmed that I was fine."

  "Too bad," Josie said. "We got the staff to put some mistletoe right above your chair."

  Helen looked up and realized Tate had returned and heard Josie's comment. He was watching her closely, as if he were studying a jury member to decide on a strategy.

  "Mistletoe is for wimps," Helen said. "If I want to kiss someone I will. But I'll choose the time and place. Which definitely won't be in front of an audience or with Martha and her staff standing by to break it up."

  She glanced at Tate for his reaction. It was always hard to tell with him, but he seemed relieved by her response.

  Josie sighed. "You're no fun."

  "She just has a different definition of fun than most people do," Tate said. "It takes some getting used to, but I think it's worth the effort."

  Helen still wasn't exactly sure why Tate had asked her to share the holiday with his family, but she'd decided to accept the invitation. Spending Christmas with him was bound to be more interesting than staying at home alone. It might even be more interesting than investigating a murder.

  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Gin Jones is a lawyer who specializes in ghost-writing for other lawyers. She prefers to write fiction, though, since she doesn't have to worry that her sense of humor might get her thrown into jail for contempt of court. In her spare time, Gin makes quilts, grows garlic, and serves on the board of directors for the XLH Network.

  To learn more about Gin Jones, visit her online at: http://www.ginjones.com

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY GIN JONES

  Helen Binney Mysteries:

  A Dose of Death

  A Denial of Death

  A (Gingerbread) Diorama of Death

  A Draw of Death

  A Dawn of Death

  Danger Cove Quilting Mysteries

  Four-Patch of Trouble

  Tree of Life and Death

  Robbing Peter to Kill Paul

  Danger Cove Farmers' Market Mysteries

  A Killing in the Market (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)

  MOTION FOR MISTLETOE

  a Jamie Winters Mysteries short story

  by

  KELLY REY

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fridays are supposed to be easy. I'd had the sort of day that could have only been made worse by running over a box of roofing nails on the way home. I hoped to improve it by spending the night decorating my Christmas tree and plotting my gift list. The tree wasn't big, and the list wasn't long, but it still might get me in the spirit of the season despite the fact I worked in an insane asylum masquerading as a personal injury law firm which passed out lumps of coal as Christmas bonuses.

  My name is Jamie Winters. I'm in my early thirties, not married, have no kids, and am mostly okay with that. I'd worked at a local law firm since the invention of lawyers—or maybe it only felt that way—and I still hadn't worked my way out of a secretarial position. They'd spiced up my title to legal assistant, but that was only aesthetics; the paycheck remained vanilla. I still made just enough to keep me in Payless shoes and Walmart clothes. To be fair, there weren't any positions to promote me to. The bookkeeper, paralegal, and lawyer jobs were all taken. I was okay with that, too. I'd seen first-hand the nut jobs who traipsed through the doors, and I didn't mind limiting my exposure.

  In keeping with the holiday season, there was a festive red light on every corner on my way home. I was waiting at the stop line when a red El Camino rocketed past me, tires squealing. I caught a glimpse of a lot of boxes and containers bouncing around in its bed before it shot into the intersection against the light, barely missed being T-boned by a mail delivery truck cruising along on the cross street, and disappeared in a puff of blue smoke.

  Consumed as I was pretending to be with the spirit of Christmas generosity, I bit back the impolite words that leapt to mind and focused instead on the El Camino itself. I was a fan of older cars, a trait which worried my mother and pleased my father, and I hadn't seen an El Camino in years. But I indulged my affection for older cars by driving one—an '80s vintage Ford Escort I'd bought from my father when he'd gotten tired of feeding it hundred-dollar bills.

  I managed to get home without witnessing any more red light abuse, and I parked in the driveway behind my landlord's Jeep. It had started snowing, thick flakes that immediately coated the ground and brightened the world, if not my outlook. Especially when I saw my landlord, Curt Emerson, standing at the hood of the Jeep, talking on his cell phone. Ordinarily Curt was somethin
g to see, but he was wearing a bulky winter coat that covered up his studliness.

  I climbed out of the Escort, slung my handbag over my shoulder, and went to see what could be important enough to keep him standing outside in a snowstorm when he could have been nice and toasty and shirtless in his own apartment downstairs.

  I stood next to him, shivering, until he hung up. "What's going on?"

  He jabbed a thumb toward the house next door, a cheerful yellow Cape Cod with white shutters and window boxes, empty at the moment. "Jack seems to be missing." Jack Angelino had lived next door to Curt forever, and he was the ideal neighbor. His grass was mowed in the summer, his leaves were raked in the fall, and his snow was eventually shoveled in the winter, after he got done playing in it. I would have gone out with him in a second, except he was anywhere between 75 and 102. But he was adorable, short and round with a cottony white beard, a perpetually happy demeanor, and owner of a Flexible Flyer.

  "Doesn't he go visit his kids for the holidays?"

  Curt nodded. "One of his sons called, and said he didn't make it. He asked me to check the house."

  "Do you think he had an accident?" I squinted at the house through the blowing snow. The living room light was on, but I knew that was on a timer. Everything else was dark.

  "I hope not." Curt hesitated. "He keeps a spare key by the back door. You think I ought to go in and look around?"

  "It might make his son feel better," I said.

  "Depends what I find." Curt took a deep breath. I could see he really didn't want to go in the house. Curt felt the same way I did about Jack. Neither of us wanted to see anything bad happen to him. He was like the grandpa of the neighborhood.