How the Finch Stole Christmas

by J. R. Ripley

  “Good afternoon, folks.” He looked us over. I noticed his smile fade ever so slightly when he recognized me as the woman with the father and daughter duo.

  “Oh, it’s you. Hello, Amy.”

  “Merry Christmas, Robert.”

  Robert turned to Derek. “Derek, good to see you again.” He pulled off his black leather glove and extended his hand to Derek.

  “You, too, Robert,” Derek said as the two men shook.

  “Is everything going well?” Robert asked.

  “The holidays are always a difficult time to get any work done,” Derek replied. “As you can see, people have other priorities.” He tousled his daughter’s hair. “But we’re plodding along.”

  Robert nodded and rubbed his chin. “And who is this lovely lady?” He bent at the waist to address Maeve.

  “This is my daughter, Maeve.”

  “Pleased to meet you also,” Robert said with a smile. His teeth were too white and Santa had never had a tan, let alone one as deep as Robert’s.

  “Hello, Mr. Santa, sir.”

  Robert laughed. “Wait, Maeve. I believe Jimmy has mentioned a Maeve. It is such a beautiful and unique name. I’ll bet that’s you.” Jimmy was Robert and Tiffany’s eleven-year-old son.

  Maeve nodded. “We’re both in the Christmas choir.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m looking forward to the concert.” The dealer shook her little hand as well. “Help yourself to a cup of hot chocolate, Maeve. I believe you will find Jimmy assisting the customers, if you’d like to say hello.” He slipped his glove back over his bare hand.

  Maeve said she would. “Okay, Daddy?”

  Derek told her to have a good time and not go far. I watched her fill a Styrofoam cup from one of several stainless steel urns that had been set up on a rustic picnic table near the entrance. Semitransparent plastic lids protected rows of Christmas cookies from the elements.

  “Since when are you selling Christmas trees instead of cars?” I asked as Maeve took her drink and a cookie and disappeared between the trees.

  Robert shrugged. “Since I haven’t been able to sell this empty lot. I made a deal with a local tree farm.” He rubbed his hands together. “What are you two interested in? We’re mostly carrying Fraser firs, but I have a few Scotch pine, Douglas fir, even some cypresses.”

  “We’re not looking for anything fancy,” Derek replied. “As long as it’s green.”

  “Follow me.”

  Derek and I shared an amused look.

  As we walked, I motioned for Derek to lower his head. “What was that all about?”

  “What?” Derek appeared confused.

  “Your conversation with Robert.”

  “Nothing. Just making small talk. Isn’t that what people in small towns are supposed to do?”

  “Fine,” I answered, not fully believing him. “But there is no way I am buying a Christmas tree from this man,” I whispered breathily in his ear.

  “Okay by me.” Derek patted my arm. “Let’s just humor him. We can always go to one of the other tree lots, if you like.”

  “I like,” I whispered firmly. We quickened our steps to catch up with Robert as he rounded a waist-high wooden bin overloaded with plastic tree stands of various shapes and sizes.

  “Back here is where I keep the big ones,” explained Robert.

  Derek winked at me. “That’s just what we’re looking for, isn’t it, Amy.”

  I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow and walked on.

  In the middle of the sea of trees, Robert paused and turned to us. “And if you buy today, I’ll even toss in a free Christmas wreath for your front door.” He started walking again. “Or car. They make great hood ornaments,” he said, looking back over his shoulder.

  “What, no free undercoating or rust-proofing?” I quipped.

  Derek laughed. Robert ignored me. That was fine by me.

  “What do you think about these babies?” Robert stopped and ran his hand along the limbs of a tree that stood about twice as tall as Derek and was as big around as a small car.

  I gazed up at the magnificent fir. “I’ll take it.”

  Derek looked at me in surprise. “You will?”

  I nodded. “Wrap it up, Robert.”

  Robert’s grin, impossibly, grew bigger than his face. “I’ll get one of the boys over.” He looked around the sea of people and trees, spotted one of his staff bundled up in a black wool high school football letterman’s jacket with tan leather sleeves, and waved him over.

  “What about you, Derek? See anything you like?”

  “Well, I—” Derek turned. His daughter was tugging at his coat with her free hand. “Hey!” He ruffled the top of her head again. “Where did you come from?”

  His daughter ignored the question. “I like this one, Daddy.” She placed her hand in the middle of the fat tree at her side.

  Derek nodded his approval. “Okay, looks good to me.” He turned to the used-car salesman turned Christmas tree dealer and said, “We’ll take it.”

  “Can’t we take two?” Maeve looked up hopefully.

  Derek drew his brows together. “Two?”

  I could practically see what he was thinking. There would barely be room for one monster Christmas tree in his tiny apartment, let alone a pair of them. He might have to move the big flat-screen TV out to make room.

  “Yes,” Maeve said, bobbing her head excitedly. “One for you and one for Mommy.”

  “Oh, ah . . .” Derek stuttered.

  I laid my hand on Maeve’s shoulder. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  “You do?” mouthed Derek.

  “I do.” I turned to the young man who had come at Robert’s behest. “We’ll take that one,” I said, pointing to my tree—it was definitely going to be bigger than Kim’s—“and this one, and?” I looked at Maeve for the answer.

  “And this one!” She pointed to a tall fir.

  I nodded appreciatively. “Good choice. That branch at the top is perfectly straight. Just the right spot for a tree topper.”

  Maeve beamed.

  “Great.” Robert clapped his hands and told his employee to round up the trees. “Follow me to the trailer and we’ll write you up.” He reached into his cashmere pocket and pulled out a handful of tiny candy canes. “Anybody care for one?”

  Maeve and I helped ourselves while Derek abstained.

  “Can I interest either of you in a tree stand?” Robert looked questioningly at us as we passed the crate of stands.

  I said no. We had our family stand tucked away in the attic. Derek bought two identical stands, one for his tree and one for the tree they’d be setting up at Amy-the-ex’s house.

  We settled up inside the trailer. Derek and Maeve then walked down to get Cousin Riley’s pickup truck so we could load up our trees.

  As I stood at the curb awaiting their return, a question suddenly occurred to me. “Did you know Virginia Johnson, Robert?”

  The question seemed to take him by surprise. He leveled his dark eyes at me. “Not really,” he said after a moment. “Why?”

  “Because I found one of your business cards in her trash can.”

  As I said the words, his look of surprise turned to one of wonder and disgust. “You were digging through her trash can?” His brows pinched together. I’d never seen Santa appear so confused. “Isn’t she dead?” He scratched his head through his Santa hat. “In fact, didn’t she die some time ago?”

  “Yes, she is.” I gave him the story about Derek being in the market for a house. “While we were at Mrs. Johnson’s house, I accidentally knocked over a trash can and your business card spilled out.”

  “So? We must give out a dozen a day.”

  Robert paused and stepped back as the young man hauling our trees brought one of them to the prep station, wher
e a second young man wielding a chainsaw deftly attacked the base of its trunk. He then set the tree to one side and wrapped it in plastic netting for the ride home.

  “Come to think of it, Virginia Johnson didn’t even drive. She came into the lot maybe ten years back wanting to sell me her old Buick. It wasn’t worth much, but I gave her a grand for it.”

  “Nice of you.”

  He nodded, though I hadn’t exactly meant it as a compliment. Knowing Robert LaChance, it had probably been worth twice that.

  Derek and Maeve pulled up in the pickup but had to double-park while a couple of vehicles ahead of us waited to have trees loaded on their rooftops.

  Robert stuffed his hands deep in his faux-fur-lined pockets. “If Virginia Johnson hadn’t died, Finch never would have got hold of Christmas House Village.”

  I sensed anger and frustration in his tone. What was that all about? “You care what happens to Christmas House Village?”

  He blinked at me. “Don’t you?”

  22

  I didn’t get the opportunity to follow up on that curious remark of Robert LaChance’s because it was time to load up our trees. Derek drove me and my tall, green beauty back to Birds & Bees, where Cousin Riley and I managed to lug it upstairs without leaving too big a trail of fir needles.

  Esther, bless her heart, followed behind with a broom and a dustpan, sweeping furiously at the needles we did drop.

  And cussing furiously as she did.

  I was grateful there were no customers in the store at the time. Some of her words were even making me blush.

  Derek and Maeve were planning to take his tree upstairs to his apartment with his father’s help. I knew they would do the same with the tree that Maeve had asked they buy for her mom, too. When he was done, Derek brought back Riley’s pickup.

  We met Derek in the lot behind the store—we being me, Riley, and Esther. Riley and Esther seemed to have a poor understanding of my desire for privacy, especially with regard to Derek.

  “Thanks for everything, Derek.” I gave him a kiss despite the onlookers. “Where’s Maeve?”

  “Back at my apartment with her grandpa. I promised I’d be right back to help her decorate.”

  I smiled. “Have fun. See you tomorrow?”

  “Only if you promise there will be mistletoe.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Derek handed my cousin the keys to his treasured truck. “Thanks, Riley.”

  “No problem.”

  Derek climbed in his car and drove off.

  Riley was delighted to see that Derek had swept out the bed of the truck for him.

  “That Derek’s a keeper,” Riley said, standing in the middle of the truck bed, having walked twice around the truck to ensure that we hadn’t scratched it—not that I was at all sure he could have noticed, considering the nicks, scratches, and scrapes that already gave the old truck its character.

  “He even topped off the gas tank,” Riley said after glancing at the gauges on the dash.

  “Maybe you ought to ask him to borrow it more often,” I suggested.

  The look on Cousin Riley’s face told me he just might take me up on that.

  “By the way, what’s with the cat litter?”

  “The what?” Riley turned to see what I was pointing at. A ten-pound sack of cat litter rested next to the right wheel well. It had been in the truck when we borrowed it. Unfortunately, one of the tree branches had poked through near the bottom of the bag. A small pile of loose clay spilled out. “Oh, that. Uh . . .”

  “Did you get a cat?” I asked. My cousin had never expressed an interest in getting one.

  Riley turned toward Esther. “Oh, uh, Esther, I’ve got your, uh . . .”

  I narrowed my eyes as the scene unfolded.

  Esther dropped her broom and dustpan and hurried over as fast as a septuagenarian—who to my knowledge had never set foot in a gym in her life—can, and carefully took the bag. Gray cat litter spilled over her boots. She carried the litter to the back door.

  I held my tongue.

  “Care to join Mom and me in a little tree-decorating session, Riley?”

  “Thanks, but I’d best be going.”

  If I wasn’t mistaken, he seemed in a sudden hurry to beat a hasty retreat.

  “If you say so.”

  With that, he jiggled his keys, gave me a quick hug, and Esther, who had resumed her sweeping, a shout, then climbed into his pickup and chugged off.

  I called to Esther as she dumped a load of fir needles in the dustbin along the edge of the back fence, “What about you, Esther?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Care to join me and Mom? We’re going to decorate the tree and have some food and drink. It’s a family tradition.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got things to do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Esther banged the broom against the dustpan, then carried them into the storeroom. She took off her apron, tossed it under the sales counter, and started up the steps.

  “Don’t forget your sack!”

  Esther paused, gripped both bannisters, and reversed course. She picked up her cat litter, careful to keep the puncture at the top, and started back up to the second floor. Halfway there, she stopped and caught my eye. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” I replied. I mean, come on, the woman was holding ten pounds of cat litter—was she still not going to admit to hiding a cat in her apartment?

  Esther drew the bag closer to her chest. “It’s clay and it’s cheap. The same stuff they use for them fancy facials at spas but at a fraction of the price.” She turned and took a step. “It makes a great mud mask. You should try it sometime!” With that, she climbed the remaining stairs and entered her apartment.

  As much as I was wondering what was going on behind that closed door, I had other things to do.

  But there was one thing I would definitely do the minute I got the chance—scan the internet. Could you really use cat litter as a mud mask, or was the Pester, as I like to call her, pulling the wool over my eyes?

  If she was trying to trick me, I’d find a way to catch her.

  If she was telling the truth, I could save a small fortune on facials . . .

  I locked the store and returned to my apartment on the third floor.

  Once ensconced in our living room, Mom and I spent the night decorating. She had prepared a Crock-Pot of holiday stew. We filled big, steaming bowls and ate while we worked.

  I had brought the tree stand down from the attic and cleaned it off with a rag. It was a heavy piece, made of cast iron and coated in green enamel paint.

  Mom had pulled our family Christmas ornaments out of the storage closet. It was good to see them. They were like old familiar faces, friends of the family.

  Some, like the tiny white porcelain bells, had been among Dad’s favorites. There was one for each of us, featuring a holly sprig with the names Mom, Dad, and Amy inscribed in gold letters. We’d bought them when I was in grade school, from Kinley’s Christmas House Village. I shook each one in turn.

  The only ornaments new to the tree this year were a glass cardinal and a bluebird, gifts from one of my distributors.

  We wound down over mugs of hot cocoa and marshmallows on the sofa and admired our handiwork. Cousin Riley had had to lop off a section of the tree at the bottom to get it to fit against the ceiling. I was planning to use the leftover branches, now lying in a pile in the corner, around the apartment to add to the holiday ambience. Already, the apartment smelled exactly like Christmas should.

  I wiggled my toes and scooped up a tiny gooey marshmallow with my tongue. While we decorated, I had filled Mom in on what I’d learned about the murder investigation thus far.

  “I can’t stop thinking about what you told me Robert LaCh
ance said about Christmas House Village,” Mom began. She pulled the Christmas throw up to her chest. It was bright red and covered with white snowflakes and reindeer. “I’m as puzzled as you are.”

  “The first thing that crossed my mind was that he wanted to tear it down and put up a car lot.”

  The corners of my mother’s mouth turned down. “You could be right. I still remember what he tried to do to you.”

  I nodded, deep in thought. When Birds & Bees was just starting out, Robert LaChance, Gertie Hammer, and our illustrious new mayor, Mac MacDonald, had tried to get my house. Their intention had been to tear it down and replace it with a parking lot and franchise Italian restaurant.

  Fortunately, they’d failed. “He’s selling Christmas trees,” I said. “Maybe he wants to take over the entire Christmas market now, too.”

  “I hate to say it, but there’s no law against that, Amy.”

  “Unless you kill to achieve your ends,” I pointed out. “Maybe Robert murdered Mrs. Johnson when she refused to sell her share to him.” I had told Mom that it now appeared that Virginia Johnson may not have died by her own hand.

  “To kill an old woman like that . . .” She grabbed my upper arm. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. And why strangle Finch and then try to make it look like he hanged himself?”

  “Somebody wanted everyone to think he hanged himself,” Mom said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “The same as they wanted everybody to think Virginia Johnson hanged herself.” I clamped my hands over my thighs. “Which leads me back to Robert LaChance and Gertie Hammer.”

  “Gertie? What’s she got to do with any of this?”

  I explained how I’d seen her on a bench at Christmas House Village the other evening. “If you ask me, her behavior was suspicious.”

  Mom smiled patiently. “Amy, I know you’ve had your difficulties with Gertie but, at her age, I can’t imagine her hanging anybody.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but Robert could be doing her dirty work for her.”

  “Mr. LaChance might be greedy and he might be devious, but would he stoop to murder?”

  “I don’t know.”