by Dana Cameron
“We’ve got him,” I said. “I’ve made copies of the files for you to take to Lieutenant Shatley.”
The lieutenant was a buddy of Jagger’s, his main connection to the local police, and, I’m sure, the reason Jagger himself didn’t do time for some of his unorthodox means of investigation.
“Meet me at our place now,” Jagger said.
Pressed for time, I didn’t even let the “our place” cause a phone-induced orgasm. I acted very professional and headed to “our place”—Dunkin’ Donuts where I gave him the files and turned to go.
“Atta girl, Sherlock.”
The words usually made me feel on top of the world, but after seeing the eyes of the Santana twins sparkle at the mention of their daddy—I felt like crap.
Some days fighting crime was more exhausting and emotional than nursing.
———
“Wesolych Swiat, Bozego Narodzenia!” my mother shouted to Goldie and Miles as they came in the door. Then she explained the greeting meant Merry Christmas in Polish.
Both hugged her, looked up at the mistletoe, and kissed her on the cheeks.
“We hang that on Wigilia to ward off evil,” she said.
I choked on nothing and thought, She has no idea how deliciously evil it could be.
“Go get some beer, Pauline,” she said to me. “And get a shot and beer for your roommates too.”
Goldie, all decked out in a sparkling silver-and-red dress with silver panty hose, chuckled. Tonight his hair was styled in a sexy, Meg Ryan kind of messy look with golden strands covering one eye. I could only imagine how it made the ever-sophisticated Miles feel. He, too, was all decked out, hut in a suave navy suit with red tie.
“I’ll get some Chardonnay for us,” I whispered and winked at them.
Goldie grabbed my arm. “Did she put condoms in our Christmas stockings again this year?”
We all laughed. “I’m sure my mother only has the best intentions in mind. Even if they are ridiculous sometimes.”
Miles looked into the dining room. “Who’s the extra plate for?”
“Polish tradition. We set it on Wigilia for an absent family member or unexpected guest.”
They looked at each other.
“Stop it you two. This year my mother swore she did not invite ‘Mister’ Jagger.”
Goldie smiled. “Phew. Hey, I hear they busted the Santa-wielding dentist.”
My insides knotted. “I know.” Tears formed in my eyes. “This case doesn’t sit right with me, though.”
Before I could get our wine, the doorbell rang. I looked around the room to see all my siblings and their families, Uncle Walt, Daddy, Mother, and my buddies. Who the heck… oh, no.
“May I help you?” I heard my mother say.
She wouldn’t ask “Mister” Jagger that.
“Merwy Cwistmas.”
I froze on the spot then defrosted fast enough to hurry to the door. “Oh, hi, Lenny.”
“I didn’t get my tweeth yet, Miss Sokol. Tomowow is ham day.”
“I know, Len. The cops are shorthanded during the holidays and it seems your case is going to take a bit longer. I’m so so sorry.”
Just as I said it, Jagger walked up behind Lenny. “Merry Christmas everyone. Going in, Len?”
My mother grabbed his arm. “Of course, we have our extra place set.”
I leaned toward Jagger. “Oops. That means there’s no room for you.”
“Miles,” I heard my mother say, “get another place setting for Mr. Jagger, please.”
And she didn’t sound at all surprised that he’d shown up.
He took my arm and walked me to the other side of the porch, where we stood for a few seconds in the freezing cold. Snow had started to fall, making the festive atmosphere of Wigilia all the more joyful.
“Let’s go in, Jagger.”
“Look, Shatley just called. Seems there’s been a mistake.”
I felt my knees buckle.
“I worked all night with him to find out that the doc was telling the truth. Seems old Lenny really is a bit off kilter.”
“Oh… my… god. He lied to me? To the newspaper? Made fools of us?”
Jagger nodded. “The good news is, Santana is home with his family and wanted me to pass along that he harbors no ill feelings toward you or Len.”
I shut my eyes for a second and thanked Saint Theresa for that. “I feel horrible.”
“Don’t. Lenny did a job on all of us. Even Shatley believed his story. Turns out that in the other cases, the guy who makes the dentures was hospitalized and never told Santana. All along he thought his patients were all set with their choppers.”
“So no fraud. But what about Lenny?”
“Jay was there when Lenny was fitted with dentures.”
Christmas was going to be very melancholy for me this year.
“Let’s go inside,” Jagger said.
I felt like throwing myself into the snow to freeze for punishment.
Once inside, I noticed Goldie walk down the hallway, headed for the dining room.
“Oh, Gold,” I said, taking his arm. “What ever happened to your friend Marty? About his veneers?”
“Geez, Suga’, with all the Christmas shopping, I forgot to tell you. The rat lied to us about them. He really couldn’t afford top and bottom work but didn’t want to be embarrassed, so he lied about paying for both. The shit.”
“So no fraud again. Thanks.” I patted his arm and stood in the hallway looking at Lenny.
Maybe my anger was palpable enough and that’s what made Lenny look up.
He waved his hands in the air. “Pweeze, let me say something.”
Daddy nodded at Lenny then held the Oplatek, a blessed sheet of bread to represent communion that we shared with each other on Wigilia, in his hand. “Go ahead, Mr. Niski.”
Lenny stood up. “I… feel terrwible. I’ve lied to you all and mostly to Pauwine. I’m sworry that the dentist got awessted. He didn’t do anythwing.”
I stepped forward. “Did you misplace your bridge-work, Len?”
He nodded. A tear ran down his cheek, landing on his way-too-big white shirt that was tucked into oversized brown pants. I noticed he was wearing his fuzzy slippers too. “I’m on a fixed income,” he whispered.
“And your insurance wouldn’t pay for another set so you thought you could get one—”
“My friend came up with the idea. He made me cover it up by taking part of my chart when Jay didn’t see.” Lenny looked to his side.
I cringed.
As my heart tore in two, Jagger took me by the shoulders, which seemed to help a little. Poor Leonard Niski, a forgotten, down-on-his-luck mentally ill man who just wanted to eat his sister’s ham tomorrow.
Ding. Dong.
I looked around the room, as did everyone else. No one was missing. Jagger let go of me and turned to open the door.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
My nephews’ and nieces’ eyes widened and some squealed with delight—actually it may have been Goldie who squealed. A jolly man, dressed in Santa garb (but looking nothing like Santana… hmm) handed Jagger a tiny, gold-wrapped gift.
To Leonard Niski it said. From Santa.
I couldn’t move as Jagger took the box to Lenny and helped him open it since the poor guy’s fingers shook so.
“My tweeth,” Lenny whispered, then shouted, “My tweeth!”
I turned around to see “Santa” gone.
My family began yelling, talking, singing, and passing every bowl and platter on the table around. Lenny was so excited that he stuck his bridge in upside down, but corrected it when Goldie pointed it out.
Instantly a warm feeling passed through me, and I felt as if this Christmas wasn’t going to be a bust. Lenny had gotten his Christmas gift after all…
Suddenly Jagger swung me around and leaned forward. His lips touched mine softly, gently, then—hungrily… and just like that, I’d gotten a damn fab Christmas gift as well.
I looke
d up at the tiny white mistletoe berries… and smiled. Maybe the druids were onto something…
f
London
December 24, 1722
“I detest Christmas.” My mother swept into the parlor, making the pronouncement with all the venom of a curse. “The perceived license turns the whole world upside-down, and one would think my house kept by the lords of misrule for the entire season instead of Twelfth Night.”
I looked up, afraid. Had she seen what I was doing?
“I grant you, a bit of merriment among the servants on Boxing Day, or even Christmas as well—I leave it to Michaels to keep order, and God knows I am a fair mistress—but these excesses…”
Almost as if she noticed me for the first time, Mother said, “Margaret, you must tell me why Mrs. Baker is in a fury, Mrs. Billings is beyond civil speech, and the maids are rushing about as though the Dev—” Mother caught herself; the world would indeed be upturned before she uttered that oath. “As though the Furies were after them?”
“Mrs. Baker, the cook, is in a fury,” I said, carefully slipping the book I’d been reading alongside the cushion of my chair, “because Father did not present himself along with the rest of us to stir the mincemeat for luck, and she fears catastrophe. And the tradesmen, footmen, and indeed, her own kitchen maids are in a riot, one inspiring the next, to take advantage of the coming holiday. Indeed, to judge by the footmen’s flushed faces, the drinking and carrying-on began at least a week ago.” I paused to consider the rest of her query, and my heart slowed its frantic racing.
“Mrs. Billings is vexed by the housemaids, who are tearing about because I’ve just had a note from Tommy that he will be coming home and will be bringing a gentleman from Oxford with him. And since Betty left us, they are still shorthanded.”
“Mrs. Baker is an excellent cook, but the woman is ridiculously superstitious.” Mother sniffed; she and Mrs. Baker were in a state of uneasy alliance, as both were strong-willed to a fault, and both believed she knew best. However, since Mother’s reputation as a hostess relied on the excellence of Mrs. Baker’s cooking, and Mrs. Baker’s standing in the world was in great part tied to Mother’s, there was generally very little open strife between the two. “And Tommy’s arrival—with or without guests—should occasion no more fluster than usual amongst the maids, even if we are short one.”
“I believe that Sally is more than usually giddy,” I said, “though Mrs. Billings has promised me that the girl has sworn she will be less excitable from now on. It is not only the fever of the coming holidays: She suspects the maid is infatuated with Simon, and has taken steps to remind them of their respective places. Sally is now outside sweeping the front stairs, giving consideration, I am sure, to Mrs. Billings’s words.”
Mother sighed. “Thank you, Margaret. There really is no point in training a girl if she’ll run off to get married as soon as she’s been taught to be an adequate servant. Just as Betty did!”
I bridled at this, true as it might be. Maintaining a staff was a constant struggle.
“As for Tommy,” my mother continued, “indeed, I am delighted the boy will be coming, as I miss the young menace dreadfully.”
“Yes, Mother.” Whenever Tommy was home, she often wished him back at Oxford.
“With the rest of your brothers and sisters safely in the country at Carisbrooke, all we have to do now is pray your father eventually finds his way home.” Mother’s lips pursed. “Excellent man, your dear father. I explained that when he left this morning, he must fetch Mr. Fairchild, who will be staying with us, and be home promptly. He assured me that they would be no more than an hour or two. But since he has apparently decided to visit friends on his way home, and will no doubt be carousing with each one of them, it is indeed considerate of him to keep his jollity out in the street, rather than adding to the disturbance at home.”
It was now midafternoon. Mother did not need to mention that one reason for her impatience was that today, Christmas Eve, was also her birthday. I nodded gravely and kept my mouth firmly shut.
Quite apart from my mother’s just complaints, I liked Christmastime. I looked forward to the chance for Christian reflection, fellowship, and charity. Most years I anticipated the sociability and dancing, but this year—
A great hullabaloo in the foyer forestalled more thought or discussion. A tumultuous crash, the front door slamming open, was followed by shouts, and we both ran to see what the matter was. Dash, my father’s morose spaniel, gave several halfhearted barks at the company of servants and gentlemen who fairly exploded into the house. The sound of men’s laughter, fueled, no doubt, by congenial company and a great deal of wassail punch told it all: Father was home.
And he was not alone. More than a half dozen household servants—man and maid—were required to get my father and his guests through the front door. Cold air now mixed with the smells of baking apples and roasting meats. I discerned that there were four other gentlemen with my father, two of whom were unknown to me; one in fine clothing in the current London fashion, the other, a hulking brute in decent but travel-stained clothing. Their valets also added to the chaos of baggage and cloaks and mud and boots.
The other two gentlemen were familiar to me, and welcome faces. One was Mr. John Fairchild, a great friend of my father’s, and the other, looming suddenly before me, was my brother Tommy.
Tommy swooped down and swept me up, twirling me around with a cry of “Mags!”
An unwilling cry of “Tommy!” was torn from my lips, as much from glad emotion as from dizziness and protest. “Put me down, you wretch! You stink of horse!”
“Say you’re glad to see me!” he said, crushing me all the harder.
I could barely breathe. “My dress… the… guests… awk—glad to see you! Now put me down!”
Fortunately, Mother had been too distracted by Father’s bellowing—a capacity he had developed from years of shouting orders in his father’s coffee shop in one of the busier streets in London—to see Tommy’s unseemly display. Unfortunately, Tommy set me down abruptly, so that the very tall gentleman, pressed back from the confusion, immediately trod on my foot.
I yelped, unable to control myself. Even several years of dancing with a wide variety of inept partners, including the very fat Reverend Grantley, had not prepared me for the oaf’s crushing weight.
My late fiancé Richard had been, among other things, an excellent dancer.
The oaf noticed immediately and stepped away, bumping into Sally, who was flushed with the outside cold and now laden with cloaks. He stammered an incoherent attempt at an apology to me. Dash woofed in protest at the confusion, and then turned tail and escaped, his footing none too steady on the slick marble floors.
“Careful, Chandler,” my father said, laughing. The aroma of nutmeg and cloves and brandy punch perfumed him. “Or have your travels in America already unfitted you for polite company?”
I bowed, casting my eyes down as much from modesty as to ascertain how my poor slipper had fared under the heel of Mr. Chandler’s riding boot. It appeared intact, though I could not say the same might hold true for my toes; my brother owed me an excellent Christmas present to make up for them. Tommy appeared to be no better in his judgment in choosing friends than he ever was: University seemed to have no other effect on him than draining Father’s purse. An excellent boy, hut sense could not be purchased.
“All of you, into the parlor!” Father bellowed. “Drinks, Michaels! When will dinner be ready? Tell Cook, Lamb will be joining us! I couldn’t just leave him in the street on Christmas Eve!”
“Mr. Chase.” My mother tried to rein in my father’s ebullience with the polite harness of civility. “Perhaps some introductions?” She cast her eyes meaningfully at me: My parents barely disguised their conspiracy to get me back onto the marriage market.
“Oh—? Right. I don’t believe you know Mr. Lamb, though you may have heard me speak well of him. Found him in Town on business with Fairchild, and insisted that he
spend the week with us. Lamb, my eldest daughter, Margaret.”
I curtsied and watched surreptitiously as Mr. Lamb made an elegant bow back to me. “Miss Chase.” He had a very fine leg, and his coat was beautifully cut, though not ostentatious. Mr. Lamb knew the ways of society, I deduced in a moment.
“You know Fairchild, of course,” my father said.
“Mr. Fairchild, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” As we exchanged courtesies, I realized that my father’s old friend looked a little worried. An excellent businessman—he had in fact saved my family two years ago by warning us about the South Sea Bubble, when so many lost their fortunes—I wondered if he was well. I found myself surprised at the depth of my concern for him, and promised myself the chance to examine it further.
“And this is Mr. Chandler. Came from Oxford with Tommy.” My father clapped his hands, now that he’d satisfied courtesy, and said, “Now for punch! Michaels!”
“I think that you forget that our guests might like a moment to collect themselves after the afternoon’s… sociability… and that Tommy and Mr. Chandler would in all likelihood wish to wash the roads from themselves.” The way Mother said it was more of an order than a suggestion to Father and the other gentlemen.
“Very well—but no dallying, none of you!” Father stomped off toward the parlor. “And you—Fairchild and Lamb! You’ve not been ahorse, so you should be there the faster.”
My father might be one of the wealthier men in town, but in his cups, he showed the manners my mother had worked so hard to impress upon him were naught but a pretty veneer over a nature used to the rough and tumble of the streets and wharves. His heart, however, was as large as his voice, as everyone who came into contact with him—business competitor or new acquaintance—had to concede.
My mother sighed as she watched him track mud down the hall, which was beautifully bedecked with evergreens and holly in honor of the Yuletide. She then turned to the assembled gentlemen and curtsied. “Welcome, sirs. If you would care to join us after you’ve seen your rooms… ?” With a nod to Michaels, who gestured to several quick footmen, a semblance of order came into our house, and I followed Mother down the hall.
