How the Finch Stole Christmas

by J. R. Ripley

  “Dear?” I whispered in Mom’s ear. “That woman clobbered Kim with her purse.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it,” Mom said, still smiling at Mrs. Fortuny.

  “Getting my hair done. Perm!” The woman was shouting. I’d noticed over the years that being under the alien contraption had that effect on people. Well, that and the angry, loud noise it made—it being Irma Fortuny, not the device.

  While I grabbed a magazine, Rhonda called my mother to come take a seat at her station, which was to the right of Irma Fortuny.

  “I’m gonna leave you simmering for a spell, Irma.” Rhonda patted Mrs. Fortuny’s free hand. The elderly woman’s other hand held a cup of hot spiced apple cider that I could smell from where I sat. “While I get started on Barbara.”

  Mom plopped herself down in the black leather salon chair. Mrs. Fortuny nodded her acceptance of the situation, and Rhonda wrapped an apron around my mom’s neck. Rhonda is the fraternal twin sister to Riley. Both are the offspring of mom’s sister, my aunt Betty. Barbara and Betty are twins, too.

  Rhonda’s thick brown hair, as per usual, was arranged in an over-the-top fifties-style bouffant. Her hazel eyes were weighted down with pink eye shadow, over which were two sharp and deadly looking eyebrows.

  She pranced around my mom in a pair of white leather shoes, a red dress with a green sash, and a Santa Claus hat. That hat—now frayed around the edges—traditionally stayed on her head from Thanksgiving morning until New Year’s Day. Rumor had it that she slept in it. But seeing as she slept alone, the rumor remained unverified.

  Unable to focus on my magazine, I crossed to the brass refreshment cart and helped myself to a cup of eggnog and a snowball cookie the size of a baseball.

  “I see you are getting your hair and nails done. What’s the occasion, Irma?” Mom asked Mrs. Fortuny as a young manicurist stepped up to the plate and took one of the elderly woman’s hands.

  Irma swiveled in Mom’s direction. “Going back to work tomorrow!”

  “That’s wonderful.” Mom nodded, then closed her eyes as Rhonda reached across her forehead with a pair of scissors.

  “Yes. With that horrible Mr. Finch gone, I shall look forward to returning.” She yelped as the manicurist filed her flesh rather than her thumbnail. If she were smart, she’d stop squirming.

  “Careful, dear.” Mrs. Fortuny raised her thumb for a closer look, then set it back on the armrest. “Now, what was I saying?” She looked at my mother, whose eyes remained closed.

  I moved nearer, taking a seat on a sturdy cushion next to the shelf holding the haircare products. “You were saying you’re going back to work. Did you find a new position, or are you talking about Christmas House Village?”

  “Of course I’m talking about Christmas House Village. I’ve worked there nearly thirty years.” She frowned at me. “Where else would I work?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that question, so I ignored it. “Is it permanent?”

  Mrs. Fortuny’s free hand went to the side of her head, landing on a curler. “Yes, a permanent. I’m going back to work!”

  I shook my head. “No. Are you going back to work, back to Christmas House Village permanently?” I found I was yelling despite myself. Every eye in the place looked at me.

  “Amy,” Rhonda said, coming over, scissors in hand and tapping my arm, “inside voices, please.”

  “Sorry.” I rose carefully so as not to spill my beverage or drop my cookie, which had somehow shrunk by half already. “Well, good luck, Mrs. Fortuny. I’m very glad for you.”

  “Believe me,” the elderly woman answered, “I’m very glad, too. Whoever killed Finch did us all a favor—a big favor!”

  I froze. “Wait. What?”

  “There’s my William.” Mrs. Fortuny’s attention swung from me to the front of the shop. She snatched her hand from the manicurist and waved at the door. Sure enough, her acquaintance came through the front door bundled in a black leather cap, red parka and scarf, and sturdy boots.

  Mrs. Fortuny looked at me once more. “The posse done strung him up. Heh-heh.”

  I moved aside as William took his place next to Mrs. Fortuny. The manicurist had given up, mumbling under her breath as she retired to the rear of the shop.

  “Ready?” William asked, tapping his cane against the tile floor. As he flexed his fingers, I noticed that the handle had been expertly carved into the head of an eagle.

  “Irma will be ready in five,” Cousin Rhonda said, running her fingers along a curler, then lifting the top of the device. “I just need to remove your curlers and comb you out, dear.” She turned to my mom. “Be right back, Aunt Barbara.”

  “Take your time, Rhonda.” Mom’s eyes were still shut. She may have been snoozing.

  “What were you saying about Mr. Finch being murdered, Mrs. Fortuny?”

  “I’m saying whoever did it, they ought to pin a medal on her.” She rolled her neck. “Or him.”

  “But who told you it was murder?” I insisted.

  “Karl.” She tilted her chin up and thought a moment. “Yes, it was Karl.”

  “Karl Vogel?”

  “That’s right.” Her voice had returned to a normal level now that Rhonda had turned off the alien device. Rhonda was slowly but deftly plucking plastic curlers from Mrs. Fortuny’s springy silver hair.

  “Now, Amy,” Rhonda said, turning her eyes on me, “I’m either going to have to put you to work or give you a haircut if you want to keep chatting up our customers.”

  I hastily returned to my chair at the window. I knew a threat when I heard one.

  William towered over me as Cousin Rhonda finished working her magic on Mrs. Fortuny. I’d never realized how big the man was. And I still knew next to nothing about him. “Don’t mind Irma,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  William leaned on his rubber-tipped cane. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying sometimes.” He smiled, clearly for my benefit. “Irma gets confused.”

  “Confused?” Something odd was going on, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  William nodded ever so slightly. “Mr. Finch killed himself, Ms. Simms. Hung himself from the rafters.” He thrust his free hand in his coat, his elbow sticking out like a chicken wing. “It’s a shame, but that’s all it was.”

  My heart raced and my ears pulsed. It might have been my imagination but every move, every word sounded like a threat. Still, I couldn’t help saying, “And now Mrs. Fortuny’s got her job back.”

  He smiled for real this time. “Yes, Irma has got her job back.” His fingers tightened around the head of the cane.

  I squirmed. The cushion under my butt suddenly didn’t feel so bubblegummy. It felt more like granite. “I suppose you got your job back, too, Mister . . .”

  William blinked but ignored my hanging question.

  I stared at his hand. “That’s quite a cane you’ve got there, William. I love the eagle.”

  His eyes went to his left hand. “Thanks.” He ran the fingers of his right hand along the eagle’s sharp beak. “I carved it myself. When it comes to handling a carving knife”—his eyes met mine—“I’m an expert.”

  I gulped. “You are?”

  “If I do say so myself.” He arched his brow. “You got something needs carving?”

  An icy jolt flew up my spine as if the cold steel of a knife tip had touched me there. I cleared my throat. A flock of tundra swans had just unexpectedly landed there. “Not that I can think of at the moment.”

  “You let me know if you do.” William smiled.

  Rhonda walked over with a now bundled-up Mrs. Fortuny, breaking the spell between me and William. The elderly woman looked double her size in a lilac-colored down coat that draped past her knees.

  “Here she is!” cooed Rhonda. She carefully wrapped the pale-blue silk scarf that Mrs
. Fortuny handed her over the old woman’s bouncy curls. “Don’t you look lovely!” Rhonda took a step back to admire her handiwork.

  I leaned past William. “Your hair does look lovely, Mrs. Fortuny.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Fortuny’s hand went to her curls.

  “Can I tell Kim you’re not angry with her anymore?”

  Mrs. Fortuny appeared befuddled.

  “I mean, now that you’ve got your job back . . .”

  “Why not? Life’s too short.” Mrs. Fortuny smiled. “At least for some of us.”

  William raced to the salon door and held it open against his back as Mrs. Fortuny dropped a five-dollar bill in Rhonda’s palm and exited.

  “See you in three weeks!” Rhonda called, waving the bill in the air.

  I approached my cousin. “Who was that man, Rhonda?”

  “That’s Mrs. Fortuny’s friend William.” Rhonda went behind the register and placed a ticket in the drawer.

  “William what?”

  “Who knows?” My cousin shrugged. “Why?”

  “No reason,” I replied quickly.

  Cousin Rhonda looked down her nose at me. “Amy, you’re not letting your imagination get carried away again, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re always seeing mysteries and secrets behind every pair of eyes.”

  I took a step back. “The way you’re waving those scissors in my face, I’m worried for my own eyes.”

  Rhonda looked at the long, sharp shears in her hand as if they had magically appeared. “Sorry.” She thrust them in the front pocket of her apron. “But you should leave everything alone.” She marched back to her station and returned her attention to Mom. “The town is back to normal. People are happy. It’s Christmastime,” she said, the brass bell on her Santa Claus hat jingling as she bobbed her head. “Why can’t you be happy, too?”

  That was a good question. Unfortunately, I did not have a good answer.

  11

  I called Karl Vogel and asked him to meet me at Ruby’s Diner. The diner is on Lake Shore Drive, not far from the town’s namesake, Ruby Lake, and directly across from Birds & Bees. A previous owner had converted the long-defunct gas station to its current existence as a casual eatery.

  I walked across the street to the diner. Inside, I waved hello to Tiffany LaChance, a friend and waitress, who was delivering some open-faced sandwiches to a family of five. Moire, the current owner and hostess, was nowhere to be seen, and business appeared slow for the moment, so I helped myself to a capacious empty booth at the window.

  From there, I had a great view of the tall sign in the parking lot with the big green dinosaur on it. Once the symbol of the station, the apatosaurus now shilled for the diner.

  When the flashy, red, antique Chrysler 300B drove past, I knew Karl had arrived. Karl and Floyd, our mutual friend, had not long ago purchased the car from Robert LaChance, a local car dealer and Tiffany’s ex-husband. Though we were only a few years apart, she had married, had a child, and divorced—three things I had never experienced.

  Whether that was for the better or for the worse depended on my mood whenever I thought of it.

  Karl and Floyd’s automobile was a work in progress. As far as I was concerned, that pretty much summed up any car that Robert LaChance sold off his used car lot.

  Still, Karl and Floyd loved the 1956 Chrysler dearly. Which was fitting, since so far it had cost them dearly—in time and money. And a whole heap of frustration.

  Tiffany, a buxom blond beauty with green eyes, stepped over to my booth. “Hi, Amy. Eating alone today?”

  “Karl’s joining me,” I explained. “Here he comes now,” I added as the elderly man pushed through the door in a pair of baggy brown trousers and a weathered brown leather Town of Ruby Lake Police Department jacket.

  Karl was the former chief of police. Having him for a friend was like having a mole inside the force, because Chief Kennedy was always calling him for advice.

  A habit that I, and the rest of the town I’m sure, were grateful for.

  I held up my arm. Karl hustled over, drooled a bit over Tiffany, then sat.

  “How are you, Karl?” Tiffany leaned over and gave him a well-received kiss on his stubbly cheek.

  “Better now,” he said with a big grin. His old police cap balanced atop his head. White hair sprouted from the sides. A pair of heavy black-rimmed glasses teetered at the end of his nose.

  “What can I get you to start?” Tiffany asked, pencil at the ready, hovering over her order book. Like all Ruby’s Diner employees, her uniform consisted of khaki pants—of course, her outfit was a more flattering fit than most—and a Kelly-green button-down shirt with white name patch, stylishly reminiscent of those worn by old-school gas station attendants.

  I half expected somebody to offer to clean my windshield for me while I ate.

  We both ordered coffee because as much as Karl wanted a beer, Ruby’s Diner did not have a license to sell alcohol.

  “So what’s this all about, Amy?” Karl said, finally able to get his old gray eyes off Tiffany’s retreating figure and on me across the table. Karl considered himself quite the ladies’ man, despite the fact he’d never managed to find the right lady.

  “I ran into Irma Fortuny at Spring Beauty today.”

  Karl’s left eye narrowed. “Your hair looks real smart, Amy.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pushing a lock of untouched hair behind my ear. “But Rhonda didn’t cut it.”

  “Even smarter.” Karl chuckled. “If you were talking to Irma, you probably want to know about Franklin Finch’s murder.”

  “You mean—” I leaned back as Tiffany settled our coffees on the table and slid the little stainless steel rack holding the cream and sugar packs between me and Karl. “Thanks, Tiff.”

  “Ready to order?”

  We both were. I ordered the grilled cheese with broccoli slaw and Karl opted for a double cheeseburger. Tiffany left to put in our order.

  I dumped some sugar into my coffee followed by a pack of cream. “It’s true then that Mr. Finch was murdered? I had a hunch.”

  Karl nodded and sipped his coffee black. “Jerry told me Kim found the body and called you after she called the police.” The retired police chief smiled over the rim of his mug. “He was madder than a rattlesnake that’s had its tail stepped on, seeing you there.”

  “I wasn’t so happy to be there myself.”

  “I can imagine. In all my years as chief of police, I never saw a single hanging victim. We had ourselves a suicide or two, but never by hanging. That’s a rough one.”

  “You’re lucky. Jerry’s already seen two.”

  “Two?”

  “Virginia Johnson,” I explained. “I learned she committed suicide some months back.”

  “Yeah,” Karl said, with unexpected softness. “Poor Virginia. I forgot about her.” He rubbed his fleshy jowls. “Rest her weary soul.”

  I nodded and said a silent prayer. “So somebody really strangled Franklin Finch up in his loft and then hanged him?”

  “Yep. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless he was strangled someplace else and then the killer took his body back to Christmas House Village to make it look like a suicide.”

  I tilted my head and pressed my fingers against my skull. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Karl shrugged. “If you ask me, it’s highly unlikely. It ain’t easy dragging a dead body around.”

  “I suppose not.” I was starting to feel woozy and it wasn’t due to low blood sugar. “Unless there was more than one person involved.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Irma Fortuny suggested it might have been a posse.”

  Karl leaned back with a chuckle, steam rising from his mug and washing over his w
rinkle-lined face. “An angry mob taking the law into their own hands? Like in the movies?”

  “Her words, not mine.”

  “Crazier things have happened, I suppose.” He paused, then added with a wink, “Not usually in Ruby Lake, however. Not until you got here.”

  I sputtered, dribbling coffee down my chin and all over my paper place mat. “Not funny, Karl.”

  He apologized as I plucked a napkin from the canister and wiped my face in as ladylike a fashion as I could muster. “So those marks I saw on Finch’s neck . . . ?”

  “Were finger marks. Like you suspected. That was mighty smart of you.”

  “Can’t the experts get some DNA then or something?”

  “The killer was wearing gloves.”

  “And this time of year, everybody is wearing gloves.” I sighed. When I had first suggested there might be more to Mr. Finch’s demise than met the eye, I had hoped I’d be proven wrong. There were some things you didn’t want to be true, no matter how unlikely that was. “How long had he been dead before . . . ?”

  “A couple of hours or so,” Karl answered without my needing to finish the sentence. “You okay, Amy?”

  That jibed with what I’d been hearing. I wrapped my fingers around my mug for warmth. “Yeah. I just keep seeing Mr. Finch hanging there in my nightmares.”

  My eyes turned toward the window and Birds & Bees. The lights were on. I could see a few customers inside, Esther hovering in the aisle and Mom behind the sales counter. “Somebody really wanted Mr. Finch dead, didn’t they, Karl?”

  Karl nodded.

  “But why?” I asked. “He had only recently moved to town. Sure, he made a lot of people angry, but who could have wanted him dead that badly?”

  Before Karl could come up with a theory, Tiffany appeared at the edge of the table. She slid the grilled cheese my way, then handed Karl his burger and fries. “If you ask me, the whole thing is gruesome.” Tiffany snatched the coffeepot from a passing waitress and topped off our mugs.

  We turned and looked at her.

  “We were just talking about Franklin Finch,” I explained.