Homicidal Holidays

by Donna Andrews

  With new buoyancy in my step, I returned to the house, then handled the trick-or-treaters until Rick and Spencer returned. It wasn’t long before Rick asked where Coach Joe had gotten to, and I explained about the kids breaking our lawn decoration. He ambled out to the shed.

  A few minutes later, he came running in, his face white even under the monster makeup, tears in his eyes.

  “Call 9-1-1!” he cried. “The generator—”

  * * * *

  On Thanksgiving, my brother and his family came to dinner. After I pulled the turkey out of the oven, I called upstairs to the kids. Spencer and the cousins rushed down as if they hadn’t eaten in months. I waited for Haley to make an appearance, too. After a couple of minutes, I called up again. Kyle was on his way to spend Thanksgiving at his grandmother’s, but had stopped by to see her before they left town. Haley had miraculously started speaking to him again, and—while she didn’t ever say anything about it—I figured with Coach Joe gone a great weight had been lifted and she was more open to boys’ attentions.

  Kyle fidgeted as he stood by me at the bottom of the stairs, continually swiping hair out of his eyes. After the third time calling her, Haley bounded down the steps wearing skinny jeans and a bright pink T-shirt that hovered just north of her belly button. Her hair, now cut into a glossy brown bob—Antoine was worth every penny—looked very feminine.

  “Wow.” Kyle straightened to his full height.

  He was almost handsome when he didn’t stoop…but not as clean-cut and attractive as the Pattersons’ boy, an all-state junior at Haley’s school, who I’d heard had recently asked her out.

  “Wow, yourself,” Haley said, a big smile on her face.

  If it saddened Rick to notice Coach Joe’s absence at the table, Haley’s grin was the best salve. He cleared his throat. “I think you forgot to put on a shirt, Haley-Bear.”

  She laughed and ran back upstairs to change.

  Did I mention that we all love Thanksgiving? I took Rick’s hand, gave it a squeeze. Everything was nearly perfect. My eyes strayed to Kyle.

  But there’s always room for improvement.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Meg Opperman penned her first mystery in the sixth grade. The protagonist was a dog named Smokey. Having moved on from her four-footed friend, she has written several short stories that actually have people in them. (Believe me, it’s better this way.) A cultural anthropologist by training, Meg has mastered the art of eavesdropping in bars around the globe and being an unabashed snoop who’s always in search of a story. She’s currently at work on an urban fantasy novel set in D.C.

  SHADOW BOXER, by Carla Coupe

  I paused on the opposite curb and smoothed my long, black gloves. The place looked the same, all clapboards and gingerbread, two big plate-glass windows cleverly added to show off the current crop of offerings. Peter had hung a new sign above the door, acid green and black: Gallerie D’Orsay. I would’ve chosen a different typeface—that Art Nouveau font was overused and commercial.

  The crowd entering was the usual mix of young and old, wealthy and student-poor. Some wore Halloween costumes, others dressed for an evening of gallery-hopping. Even from a distance, they reeked of pretension.

  Stop it. That’s not what I’m here for.

  I took a steadying breath and adjusted my black, satin mask. It covered most of my face, leaving just my eyes and scarlet-painted mouth visible. As I crossed the street, I dodged cars and SUVs that inched along, scouting for parking spots. The crowd swept me through the heavy doors and into the gallery.

  Young women dressed in tattered bustiers and bustles—zombie can-can dancers?—handed out black plastic glasses of white wine and, in fake French accents, directed newcomers to tables spread with finger-foods.

  My hands shook when I took a glass, so I set it down on a tray filled with empties. Don’t lose your edge now.

  At the entrance to the room on the left, Peter had placed a placard on a stand, his usual grudging concession to publicity:

  Exhibit Opening Halloween

  Windows to the Macabre

  Assemblages by Jonas Brewster

  My heart battered against my breastbone. I lifted my chin and walked into the room.

  Shadowboxes—foot square, wooden boxes painted black, open on one side like the shoebox dioramas we used to make in grade school—covered the walls and sat grouped on display pedestals. Each was carefully lit from inside. Peepholes to a strange world.

  I turned to the shadowbox on my right, labeled with a small “first.” Of course. Calling it “one” would be too lowbrow for Jonas. Inside, a child sat up in bed, staring at a luminous shape in the corner of its bedroom—a guardian angel being devoured by a demon. The figures and furnishings were crafted from bits of costume jewelry, old buttons and clasps, disassembled watches and cell phones. The detritus of modern life.

  The babble of voices faded. Moving from shadowbox to shadowbox, following the story of the demon-haunted child, I finally reached the last one, labeled forty-ninth. No need to look; I knew how the tale ended. Beneath my mask, sweat trickled down my cheeks and salt stung my eyes.

  Bright light suddenly flooded a corner of the room. I edged through the crush. A tall, black-clad guy pointed a news camera at a woman in a pomegranate-red suit holding a microphone.

  Who had Peter bribed to get television news coverage? But no, he’d never pay for it; he’d think it was his by right. Probably part of the town’s Gallery Walk publicity.

  The reporter’s mouth moved as she gestured toward the display, her words lost in the hubbub.

  Then he stepped into the light.

  Jonas.

  The crowd stilled as the reporter spoke again, and Jonas smiled. That smile. The bashful, gee-whiz, look-at-me-I’m-so-modest one. He added an artful shrug and lifted his eyebrows for good measure before growing serious and indicating a shadowbox on the wall labeled “twenty-third.”

  The one where the child, now grown, tries to commit suicide for the first time.

  Jonas spoke for a minute or two, all brooding intensity in his dark silk shirt and neatly pressed designer jeans.

  “Thank you, Jonas Brewster,” the reporter said. “I urge everyone to come and see this extraordinary exhibit before it moves on. This is Sally Hobbes saying happy Halloween.”

  When she nodded, the camera light went out.

  The crowd shifted, broke around me like water around a pebble in a stream. Now that the excitement of filming was over, people moved back toward the wine and hors d’oeuvre tables in the entry.

  I gazed at the familiar figure in shadowbox twenty-third and twisted a lock of blond hair around my fingers.

  “Laura?” Jonas stood beside me, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. “Thought it was you. I’d recognize that cloak and elf-wannabe get-up anywhere. What the hell are you doing here?” He bit off the words, one by one, but kept his voice soft. “You’re not my girlfriend anymore. I told you what would happen if you came back.”

  I swallowed, my throat like sandpaper.

  A smile stretched his lips, as fake as his teeth, and he reached for me. “If you think I’m going to let you ruin my big chance…”

  With a gasp, I turned and fled.

  People clogged the door—witches, vampires, fairies, a man in an Andy Warhol wig—but I slipped through them and gained the sidewalk. I shivered in the cool air, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the gallery, and hurried down the block, glancing over my shoulder. Jonas emerged from the gallery, hesitated on the threshold, scanning the street, then sauntered down the steps toward me.

  Joining a cluster of gallery-goers, I tried to blend in. No way did I believe Jonas was just out for a stroll. He was following me. I had to stay around people, not let him get me alone.

  The squat brick building housing Roberts Fine Art appeared on my right. The crowds weren’t as thick here—too avant-garde to appeal to most—but decent wine and plentiful hors d’oeuvres attracted those in the know. I slipped insid
e.

  Waving away the offer of another wine-filled plastic glass, I paused before a huge canvas, but my attention stayed fixed on the door.

  Sure enough, Jonas entered, ignoring the young man who greeted him, heading straight for me.

  I ducked into the next room and threaded through people standing around trays heaped with cheese and vegetables. The rooms all interconnected, allowing a circular flow, and I reached the outer door as Jonas rounded a corner.

  Then I was back on the crowded sidewalk.

  The next gallery, Betty’s Baubles, housed one big room filled with display cases of jewelry. I moved from case to case, heading toward the rear, while Jonas lounged on the front stoop, checking his phone, waiting. He caught my gaze through the glass door and the corners of his mouth curled up, but there was nothing friendly in his expression.

  My hands shook.

  Three quick steps and I entered the short hall to the bathroom and kitchenette. A cinder block propped open the back door.

  The front door chimed. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor.

  “Hey, Jonas, congratulations! We didn’t expect to see you—”

  “Yeah, thanks, man. Catch you later,” he said.

  I had already reached the edge of the employee parking lot when he hurried out the door, head turning. When he caught sight of me, he deliberately rubbed his crotch, and my skin crawled.

  A quick right turn and I took off down a dark, narrow passage between buildings. About halfway, I glanced over my shoulder and pulled up short.

  Jonas had disappeared. Had he dashed around the building to ambush me as I reached the street? Was he back in the parking lot, waiting for me to retrace my steps? Or had he given up the chase?

  I pressed against the wall, my harsh gasps loud in my ears. What should I do?

  He’d find it easier to hide with all those cars in the parking lot, so I’d have a better chance of spotting him if I continued on to the road. At least there wasn’t a street or shop light right at the end of the passage.

  I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head and tucked away a few stray blond strands. Right now, shadows were my friends. Then I crept forward, listening for footsteps, craning my neck, trying to keep an eye in front as well as behind.

  At the mouth of the passage, I paused. Groups of people passed by. If I could join one…

  I edged out of the darkness.

  Fingers closed around my arm. My heart stuttered; a scream died in my throat.

  “I thought you were smarter than this, Laura,” Jonas whispered, his breath hot against my face, his fingers tightening, pale against the black of my cloak. “Guess I need to teach you another lesson.”

  “No, don’t,” I breathed, barely audible, as I trembled and blinked away tears. He slung one arm over my shoulders, pressing me close, and pulled me down the street, dodging the crowds. An unlit black bulk loomed on our left.

  “Look, there’s St. Catherine’s,” he said. He brushed his lips against my neck. I wanted to peel off my skin. “They’re doing construction on the church building, but the graveyard’s the same. Remember when I fucked you against a headstone? Think I’ll do it again. It’ll be just like old times.”

  “Please…”

  Under my cloak, his hand roamed over my breast, and I squirmed in his grasp. When we were across the street from the church, I took a deep breath, reached up and unfastened the cloak’s clasp at my throat, and jerked away. His arm slipped off my shoulders. He grabbed at me, fingers clutching my clothes, but I pulled free. I darted through the traffic to the opposite sidewalk with Jonas close behind.

  A honk, two. “Fuck off,” Jonas shouted at a driver who just missed him. He banged his hand on the car’s trunk.

  I dashed toward the unlit church and, ignoring the “Keep Out” sign, dodged through a gap in the chain-link fence. Behind me, the squeal of brakes and a string of curses tracked his progress.

  My footsteps crunched on the gravel path as I headed along the side of the church to the back. A quick turn, gravel spraying, and I ran up a set of stairs that ended on a wide stone porch about ten feet off the ground, overlooking the graveyard. The church’s heavy wooden door broke the expanse of worn brick on my right. Iron railings bordering the porch had been removed, replaced by ubiquitous orange construction webbing. Dim light filtered through the branches of the trees that surrounded the building, striping the stone with a moving mosaic. At the far end of the porch, I turned and leaned against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath.

  He skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs.

  “Stupid as always, Laura,” he said. “Running into a dead end. Almost as if you want me to catch you.” He paused. “Yeah. That’s it. You do want me to catch you.”

  I shook my head.

  “Now you’re lying.” He laughed, hands on hips. “Admit it. You like it rough. You’ve always liked it rough. A little pain—a lot of pain—turns you on. Makes you more creative.”

  He swaggered as he approached. I shrank back.

  “Those shadowboxes are your best work,” he said. “My best work, really, since I’m the one who…motivated you.”

  A whimper escaped my throat.

  “But now I’ve got my break,” he continued. “TV coverage, a magazine article, even the Museum of Modern Art’s interested in showing the boxes. I don’t need you anymore.” He lifted a fist. “So stay away if you know what’s good for you. Keep your mouth shut. They’re mine now.”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Yes. Even if you told the whole world you created them, no one would believe you.” He chuckled and ran his fingers through his hair, then shoved his hands in his pockets, a familiar gesture. “Who would you believe? Some crazy chick hanger-on, a groupie, or a guy with a proven track record? A guy with a dozen gallery shows to his credit?”

  He stopped in front of me, hips cocked, hands still in his pockets. A shaft of light moved over his face, caught his grin.

  Sliding over the rough brick, my fingers found and then tightened around the ring of heavy plastic hooked on the wall beside me. I grabbed the ring, the loop dropped over his head, and I pulled tight. He lunged forward, stopped short by the rope that was attached to the ring. The rope whose other end was tied to a high branch in the tree behind Jonas.

  He gasped, fingers clawing at his neck.

  “Don’t bother.” I stood tall, arms crossed over my chest. “It works like a zip tie. You can’t loosen it. You have to cut it off.”

  He snarled, grabbed my hair.

  I jumped back. He stared at the mask and blond wig hanging limply from his fingers.

  Then he looked at me, eyes wide.

  “Karen?”

  “Congratulations. You finally figured it out,” I said. “You’re so predictable, Jonas. Laura told me what you did to her here, how you liked to return to the same spot. That made it easy for me to lead you into my trap…and to let you think you were leading me.”

  “What…” He dropped the mask and wig, tried to force a finger between the plastic loop and his neck.

  I pulled a scrap of paper from my pocket, held it up. “Laura’s obituary. It only appeared in our local paper, so you won’t have seen it. My sister killed herself last week. Because of you.”

  Before he could reply, I stepped forward and crammed the obit into his shirt pocket.

  “A pity you can’t live without her, isn’t it?”

  I shoved him hard. He stumbled, took a step backward into nothing, and fell off the porch.

  The rope tightened. A branch creaked. And Jonas swung beneath the trees, hands flailing, choked gasps almost drowned out by the rustle of dry leaves.

  His struggles grew sluggish, more uncoordinated. After what seemed like ages, finally, finally, his arms flopped to his sides, his legs stopped twitching, and his light-dappled body swung in a gentle arc. A pendulum, slowly tallying the moments since his death.

  I scooped up the wig and mask. Glancing back at the body, his body, I rememb
ered the image in the final shadowbox: the demon-haunted child, now an adult, hanging from a tree branch.

  Just as my little sister had done.

  Just as Jonas did now.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Carla Coupe fell into writing short stories almost without noticing. Two of her short stories—“Rear View Murder” in Chesapeake Crimes II and “Dangerous Crossing” in Chesapeake Crimes 3—were nominated for Agatha Awards. Her Sherlock Holmes pastiches appear in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine and Sherlock’s Home: The Empty House.

  LAST RITES, by Timothy Bentler-Jungr

  Our part of Chelsea is not particularly kid friendly, so the doorbell caught me by surprise. Jason and Emmet had come by with little Maya a few hours before—her pink princess ensemble included a feather boa left over from Jason’s La Cage phase—and I figured that was probably it for trick-or-treaters this year.

  A few blocks away the clubs would be jammed with writhing bodies, of course. Not my scene anymore. Not since Eric had come into my life and showed me that domestic bliss wasn’t simply a lie made up by Martha Stewart to sell magazines. I’d just poured myself a second glass of pinot noir and resumed surfing through the night’s assortment of look-alike reality shows, wishing Eric was home to provide his scathing running commentary. I hit the mute button, grabbed a couple organic granola bars from the kitchen, and opened the door.

  “Hello, Stephen.”

  Maybe it was the shock, or maybe it was how old and shrunken she looked, but it took a few beats for my brain to register what I was seeing. Not a little bed-sheet ghost, or a miniature Darth Vader. A real monster. The Wicked Witch of Long Island.

  “Mom? What are you…I mean, how did…” I realized I was stammering like an idiot. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “How did you get here?”

  It seemed like the simplest question to go with.

  “Taxi.” She must have caught me glancing up and down the block. “I sent him away already. So you’d have to invite me in.”

  An icy wind shrieked between the brownstones, scattering dead leaves and bits of rubbish in its wake. “I could leave you out on the stoop to freeze.”