How the Finch Stole Christmas

by J. R. Ripley

  “Yes, I only recently heard about her passing myself.”

  “She suffered terribly, so I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.”

  “She had MD like my mom?”

  “No, I don’t recall so.”

  “Then you must mean depression?”

  “Depression?” The receptionist’s look told me she hadn’t meant that at all. “No, all the old-age stuff. Aches and pains. We all get it. Trust me.” She tugged at her lower lip.

  “Apparently so, since she committed suicide.”

  “I suppose poor health might have made her depressed.” The receptionist gripped the edges of her seat. “But it was the rheumatism that was the worst. The poor woman could barely use her hands. She was one of Dr. Santiago’s patients.”

  “Really?” I’d seen Dr. Santiago’s name on the door. Her specialty was rheumatology.

  The receptionist nodded. “Mrs. Johnson had trouble opening packages and couldn’t do half the things she used to. Couldn’t open her pill bottles. She couldn’t even drive. A taxi brought her here once every three months for her checkups.”

  Mom appeared at the back counter. “Ready, dear? Dr. Ajax says I’m good to go.”

  The doctor laid some papers on the desk behind the counter. “That’s right, your mother’s good for another fifty years or fifty thousand miles, whichever comes first.”

  Mom and I laughed at his little joke.

  But I wasn’t laughing when I thought about what the receptionist had told me. If Virginia Johnson’s hands were so bad, how had she managed to tie a noose around her neck and hang herself?

  17

  I looked at my watch and frowned. It had been over two hours. Kim had called my bluff.

  I drove straight to the police station. But it wasn’t to have the police check on Kim.

  I wanted to check on the police.

  The Town of Ruby Lake Police Department is on Barwick Street, far from city hall, which is located in the center of the town square. The building housing our small police force sits close to the street with nothing more than a narrow strip of patchy grass and a sidewalk between the quaint headquarters and the curb. Tree roots have worked their way beneath the sidewalk and the concrete slabs tilt dangerously in all directions.

  I parked at the curb and went inside. It was a small office, no more than a couple hundred square feet with several desks scattered about, and with absolutely no sense of style at all.

  The only windows were on the front of the building and dusty beige metal blinds covered them most of the time. Not that it mattered, because the view of Barwick was blocked by a row of dented and rust-pitted filing cabinets. Drawers hung open and papers bulged from within them. Overflowing documents, no doubt dating from the Roosevelt administration, balanced in precarious piles atop the cabinets.

  There were a couple of drooping potted plants perched on the file cabinets, too. What they were supposed to be, I could only guess. If anybody ever decided to water them, I feared they would die of shock.

  Officers Sutton and Reynolds had desks to the right of the front door. Jerry’s office was on the back wall toward the left. Anita Brown, their dispatcher, had a desk near the back on the right.

  I noticed that a third desk had been added to accommodate Officer Pratt, a recent hire. His desk had been squeezed in on the left near the gun rack. Next to the locked gun rack hung the pictures of all of the town’s previous, and current, chiefs of police. One portrait showed a twenty-year-younger Karl Vogel, looking quite handsome and rather dashing in his brown uniform.

  Officer Reynolds’s desk was empty. So was Dan’s, but I spotted him conferring with Chief Kennedy in back. Officer Pratt, a big African American man in his forties, had moved to Ruby Lake from New Orleans. He’d once handcuffed me, but I had since forgiven him, so I waved a friendly hello as I walked to Jerry’s desk at the rear.

  Jerry looked up as I approached and stopped talking. In a flash, his demeanor went from professional to peeved.

  Dan, who was seated in a chair across from the chief, turned to see what had caused the change in his boss.

  “Hi, Officer Sutton, Jerry.”

  I could practically see the blood begin to boil and rise in Jerry’s cheeks as I realized my mistake. “I mean, Chief Kennedy.” I smiled to relieve the tension.

  “That will be all, Dan.” Jerry tapped out a beat on his desk with the pencil in his left hand. “Let me know what you find out.”

  Dan pushed himself up from the wood chair. “Yes, sir.” He nodded at me, moved to his desk to retrieve his hat and coat, then departed.

  As soon as Jerry caught me eyeballing the papers spread out on his desk, he scooped them up, stuffed them in a tan folder, and dropped the creased folder in desk drawer. “What do you want, Simms?” He slammed the drawer shut with his knee.

  I claimed the seat Officer Sutton had surrendered. “Listen, Jerry, I mean, Chief Kennedy—”

  He leaned forward and held up his hand. “Forget it. Whatever you want to know about Franklin Finch, I’m not telling you a thing. This is an ongoing murder investigation and you are not part of it!”

  “I’m not here to talk about Franklin Finch.” I dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand.

  “You’re not?” Jerry leaned back with a squeak of his leather-backed chair and pinched his brows together. Not a pretty sight. They looked like they were mating.

  “No, I’m not.” I unbuttoned my coat and clasped my purse on my lap. “I’m here to talk to you about Virginia Johnson.”

  Jerry gave his head a shake. “The woman is dead and buried. If you’d like, I can tell you where to find her tombstone out at the cemetery. I’d say the time for that discussion has long passed.”

  I leaned forward and rested a wrist on the edge of his desk. “And I’d say the time for that discussion is long overdue, Chief,” I added with a smile. A little flattery could go a long way with Jerry.

  Jerry’s mouth turned down. “I know I am going to regret asking this,” he said, sounding terribly put out, “but why would that be?”

  “Because,” I said, taking a quick breath. “Franklin Finch was—”

  There went that stupid hand of his up in the air once again. “I am not talking about Mr. Finch.”

  “Fine. Hear me out. I drove my mother over to Swan Ridge for her appointment with her neurologist, Dr. Ajax.”

  Jerry dropped his head to his chest and closed his eyes. I chose to ignore the melodramatics and continued. “The receptionist there told me that Virginia Johnson suffered from rheumatoid arthritis.”

  Jerry popped his eyes open and stared at me. “Let me get this straight—the receptionist at a doctor’s office told you that an old woman had arthritis.”

  “Yes,” I said with an accompanying nod.

  “Well, thanks for that news bulletin.” Jerry began gathering up papers on his desk. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have rather a lot on my plate at the moment.”

  He rose, planted his fists atop his desk, and loomed over me. “Like resolving an ongoing murder investigation.” His cheeks bulged out like a chipmunk’s.

  I ignored him. “Franklin Finch was—”

  The hand shot up again. “Uh-uh!”

  I stood and looked Jerry in the eye. “Franklin Finch was found hanging in his loft!” I blurted before he could uh-uh me again. “Virginia Johnson was found hanging in her garage!”

  I plopped back down in my chair and locked my arms over my chest.

  Jerry leaned forward once more and narrowed his eyes at me. His voice was low but firm. “Franklin Finch was strangled first and then strung up for some reason. I intend to find out what that reason was.”

  He huffed out a breath to let me know how annoyed he was with me. “Virginia Johnson committed suicide. She hung herself from the rafter tie in her garage!” He pointed at th
e ceiling.

  “But what if Virginia Johnson was strangled?”

  “Virginia Johnson was not strangled.” Jerry was adamant. “She hanged herself.”

  “But what if she was strangled first?”

  “You mean like Finch, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Isn’t it possible?”

  “Yes, I admit it’s possible.” Jerry slammed the folder down on his desk. “But in this particular case, it just isn’t so. Virginia Johnson hanged herself, plain and simple.”

  “How can you be sure? Maybe you should ask the court to exhume the body. See if there is any physical evidence that might have been missed the first time.”

  The chief of police fondled the handle of the weapon on his hip as he debated with himself. “Fine. Follow me.”

  He led me to the filing cabinets, and after some searching he threw open a thin folder and stabbed at the close-up shot of Mrs. Johnson’s neck. “There are no signs of strangulation. No fingerprints. No nothing. And the autopsy didn’t find any evidence to suggest anything other than what it was.” He pushed the folder shut, mangling it as he did so. “Suicide. By. Hanging.”

  Steam practically poured from his nostrils as he shoved the file back in the cabinet—in a space not even close to the one he’d removed it from.

  “That’s some filing system you have here. I’m surprised you boys can find your own lunches each day.”

  I heard a chuckle from Officer Pratt. Unfortunately, his boss had heard it, too. Jerry sent the officer a withering glare. Maybe that was the true reason for the droopy potted plants—Jerry might have given them his patented withering look.

  “Don’t you have some patrolling to do, Officer?” The tone of Jerry’s voice made it clear that the question was not a question.

  Officer Pratt apparently interpreted it that way, too. He leapt to his feet and grabbed his hat. “Yes, sir.” In a flash, he was out the back door and on his way to a squad car.

  “Goodbye, Simms.” Jerry turned and headed for his desk.

  I followed. “Okay, so Mrs. Johnson wasn’t strangled.”

  Jerry stopped midstep and turned. “She wasn’t.”

  “I agree,” I said, tagging along once more as he flopped into his chair. “She was hanged. No strangling, I get it.” I stood at the edge of his desk. “What I don’t get is how.”

  Jerry lifted his brows. At least they had stopped mating. I was waiting for the appearance of a baby brow anytime now. “How what? Let me paint a picture for you. A woman is depressed. She’s sad. She’s lonely. She’s old.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Jerry held up his hand. It was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out and giving it a slap. “She gets a piece of rope from the garage, slides over an old piano bench, ties one end of the rope over a big old beam and the other end around her neck. Then . . .” He splayed his hands. “End of story.”

  I pulled a face. “Can I talk now?”

  Jerry mashed his hands into his face. “Can I stop you?”

  “How did she do it, Jerry?” His mouth opened and I put up both my hands to put a stop to it. “How did Virginia Johnson drag a piano bench across her garage, tie one end of a rope over a high beam and the other end around her neck”—I stopped and angled my head to one side, never taking my eyes off of his—“when her hands were so bad that she couldn’t drive, couldn’t open packages, couldn’t even open her own pill bottles?”

  Jerry’s mouth hung open but no words came out.

  “How did she do it, Jerry?”

  Jerry leapt to his feet and began pacing, his heavy black leather boots stomping out his frustration. Finally, he turned and looked at me from the other side of the room. We were the only two people in the place. “Are you trying to suggest Virginia Johnson had help?”

  “She didn’t hang herself, Chief. She couldn’t.”

  Jerry’s hand went behind his neck and he rubbed it vigorously. “If she didn’t hang herself—”

  “Then she wasn’t depressed and somebody hung her up there. They murdered her, Jerry.”

  “But why?” Jerry rolled his neck. “Why kill an old lady?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. But it’s the same M.O., isn’t it? Isn’t that what you say?”

  “You mean modus operandi?”

  I nodded. “Virginia Johnson was hanged. So was Franklin Finch.”

  “Yeah, except that it wasn’t the same M.O.” Jerry parked his butt on the edge of Officer Reynolds’s desk. “Virginia Johnson was hanged by someone, maybe,” he hedged, “but Finch was definitely strangled first.”

  “But it was made to look like a hanging.”

  Jerry’s eyes narrowed. “The fact is, it did seem like somebody went to a lot of trouble to make it look like Finch hanged himself.”

  “Think about it, two hangings!” I held up two fingers. “What are the odds that they aren’t related?”

  “Not high,” admitted the police chief.

  “What are the odds that the person who murdered Virginia Johnson is the same person who murdered Franklin Finch?”

  Jerry bit his lower lip. “Pretty high, I’d say.”

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  Because for once we agreed.

  I moved in for the kill. “And what is it that Virginia Johnson and Franklin Finch have in common?”

  Jerry furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? Like we’ve been talking about. It now appears the two of them were murdered.”

  “And?”

  “And they were both found with noose neckties?”

  I flinched. “Yeah, there’s that, but what else?” I was excited now because the truth was, the what else had only come to me a moment ago.

  Jerry shook his head. “I am not in the mood for your guessing games, Simms.” He slid off the desk and crossed to the water cooler. He grabbed a paper cup and filled it, drinking quickly.

  I came up behind him. “Christmas House Village?”

  Jerry frowned. “What?”

  “Christmas House Village, Jerry, Chief Kennedy. Franklin Finch owned Christmas House Village.”

  He pulled a face. “I know that, Simms.” He crumpled his cup and tossed it in the receptacle beside the water cooler. The man wasn’t much for reuse, recycle.

  “Jerry.” I grabbed his elbow, then removed my hand quickly as he flashed a look at me and headed over to his desk. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up with a withered arm.

  I followed like a faithful puppy. “Virginia Johnson was part owner of Christmas House Village.”

  Jerry leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

  “Virginia Johnson is found hanged in her garage and everybody assumes it was suicide. A few months go by, then Franklin Finch, who is by now the new owner of Christmas House Village, is strangled and found hanging in his apartment in an attempt to make his death look like suicide, too.”

  The ensuing silence was, as they say, deafening.

  “Well?” I asked. “What do you think?” I gulped and waited. Had he fallen asleep? Was he thinking of ways he might strangle me and hide the body?

  Jerry’s feet fell to the floor as he leaned forward. He draped his arms over his desk. “I think,” he sighed, “I have some thinking to do.”

  18

  I left Jerry with his thoughts, buttoned up my coat, and marched outside. Officer Sutton stood on the grass, his shoulder resting against the trunk of a bare oak.

  “Dan, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Dan straightened as he nodded toward the door. “I thought I’d make sure you got out of there alive.”

  “Very funny.”

  “How’s Kim doing?”

  I fished in my purse for my key ring. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Dan frowned. “I talked to her for a minute or two y
esterday. It was the middle of the day and she was moping around in her pajamas. I told her that folks around here aren’t as volatile as they were before the murder.”

  “The best thing she can do is get out and go about her life.”

  “I agree,” said Dan. “But how do we get her to do that?”

  I tapped my foot on the sidewalk. “Good question.” I smiled. “And I think I have the answer. Where are you off to? Is Jerry sending you on some top secret mission, like fresh cupcakes?”

  Dan chuckled. “No, not this time, anyway. We’ve had a call about some vandalism over at Christmas House Village.”

  “Again?”

  “What do you mean, again?”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” I said, deciding to remain vague. Eve Dunnellon had told me that Christmas House Village preferred to keep such things quiet. “What is it this time?”

  “A shopper called to report that someone had dumped a gallon of red paint and a dead squirrel in the men’s room at Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen.”

  “Christmas House Village?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen was located in Frosty’s House and served light Christmassy drinks and snacks year-round.

  “The chief wants me to check it out. At least I won’t be the one having to clean it up.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going. Let me know if you hear from Kim.”

  “I will.”

  Dan climbed into his squad car idling at the curb. I approached the passenger-side window and motioned for him to roll the window down.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know a Bobby Cherry?”

  Dan thought a moment, one eye on the monitor on the dash. “No, should I?”

  “Ask Eve Dunnellon about him.”

  “The manager at Christmas House Village?”

  Dan agreed and drove off.

  Back at the store, I found Riley and Mom finishing up the birdseed ornament order in the first floor stockroom. Esther was running things out front.