Deck the Halls

by Mary Higgins Clark

  How could I forget? Rosita wondered. A mental image of the brilliant chartreuse shade he’d painted the main viewing room of the Reilly funeral home in Summit, New Jersey, flashed through her mind. She remembered Luke Reilly’s reaction when he saw it. “Rosita,” Luke had said, “I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up.”

  “I’d throw up, Mr. Reilly,” had been Rosita’s advice.

  Needless to say, Petey the Painter’s services had no longer been requested nor required in any of the three Reilly funeral homes.

  Petey had gratuitously added bright yellow to the moss-green paint Luke had selected, declaring that he thought the place needed a little livening. “Relatives of dead people need cheering up,” he’d informed them. “That green was really depressing. I had a little extra yellow paint in my car, so I threw it in for free.” On his way out, he’d asked Rosita for a date, which she’d promptly declined.

  Rosita wondered if he still had flecks of paint in his hair. She looked at him, but couldn’t tell. A cap with earmuffs covered every inch of his head and shaded his narrow, bony face. His wiry frame was encased in a dark-blue storm jacket. The turned-up collar of the jacket grazed the graying stubble that shaded his chin.

  “Of course I remember you, Petey,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  He shuffled from foot to foot. “You look great, Rosie. Too bad your most important passengers never get to feast their eyes on you.”

  The reference, of course, was to the fact that Rosita sometimes drove the hearse in funeral cortèges.

  “You’re funny, Petey. See you.” She began to raise the window but was stopped by Petey’s hand.

  “Hey, it’s freezing out. Can I sit in the car? I need to ask you something.”

  “Petey, Mr. Reilly will be here any minute.”

  “This will only take a minute,” he explained.

  Reluctantly, Rosita threw the lock that opened all the doors. She had expected him to go around and get in beside her in the front seat. Instead, in a lightning-fast motion, he opened the back door of the vehicle and slid in.

  Thoroughly annoyed with her intruder, she swiveled her head around to face him in the back of the limo, whose tinted windows shielded anyone seated there from the view of the outside world. What she saw took her breath away. For a moment she thought it was a joke. Surely that couldn’t be a gun Petey was holding?

  “Nobody’s going to get hurt if you do what I tell you,” Petey said soothingly. “Just keep a nice, calm look on your pretty face until the King of the Stiffs gets here.”

  * * *

  A weary and preoccupied Luke Reilly emerged from the elevator and walked the short distance to the door of the hospital, barely noticing the Christmas decorations adorning the lobby. He stepped outside into the raw, cloudy morning and was glad to see his limo waiting near the end of the driveway.

  In a few strides, Luke’s long legs brought him to the car. He knocked on the window of the passenger side, and a moment later was turning the handle of the back door. He was inside and had closed the door behind him before he realized that he was not alone in the backseat.

  Luke’s unerring memory for faces, coupled with the sight of paint-flecked boots, made him realize instantly that the man sitting opposite him with the gun in his hand was none other than the idiot who had turned his viewing room into a psychedelic nightmare.

  “In case you don’t remember me, I’m Petey the Painter. I worked for you last summer.” Petey raised his voice. “Start driving, Rosie,” he ordered. “Turn right at the corner and pull over. We’re making a pickup.”

  “I remember you,” Luke said quietly. “But I prefer seeing you with a paintbrush instead of a gun. What’s this all about?”

  “My friend will explain when he gets in. Nice comfortable car you got here.” Again, Petey raised his voice. “Rosie, don’t try any funny stuff like running a light. We don’t want no attention from the cops.”

  Luke had barely slept the night before, and his mind was blurry. Now he felt somehow detached from reality, as though he were dreaming or half asleep, watching a movie. He was alert enough, however, to sense that this unlikely kidnapper might never have held a gun before, which actually made him twice as dangerous. Luke knew he could not take the chance of throwing himself forward in an attempt to overpower his captor.

  Rosie turned the corner. The car had not quite stopped when the front passenger door opened and another man joined them. Luke’s mouth dropped: Petey the Painter’s partner in crime was none other than C. B. Dingle, the disgruntled nephew of the late Cuthbert Boniface Goodloe.

  Like Petey, C.B. was wearing a cap with earmuffs that fit loosely over his balding head, and a bulky, nondescript storm jacket that covered his butterball-shaped torso. C.B.’s round, pale face was half covered by a dark, bushy mustache that had not been present at his uncle’s wake the day before. Wincing, he pulled off the fuzzy disguise and addressed Luke.

  “Thank you for being on time,” he said cordially as he patted his lip. “I don’t want to be late for my uncle’s funeral. But I’m afraid you’re not going to make it, Mr. Reilly.”

  Where are they taking us? Rosita agonized as, following C.B.’s instructions, she turned right on Ninety-sixth Street and headed for the FDR Drive north. She had seen C.B. at the funeral parlor only yesterday, had met him a couple of times before when he came to the funeral home with his uncle, who kept changing his mind about the plans for his last farewell.

  Irrationally, she almost smiled, remembering that Cuthbert Boniface Goodloe had stopped in only last month to inform Luke that the restaurant he had chosen for a reception after his funeral had been closed down by the Health Department. She had driven Mr. Reilly, Goodloe, and C.B. to the Orchard Hill Inn, which Mr. Reilly had suggested as a replacement. Mr. Reilly told her later that Goodloe had painstakingly studied the menu, eliminating the most expensive items from his guests’ future selections.

  That day C.B., as usual, had been practically kissing his uncle’s butt, which obviously had done him no good. Yesterday afternoon the viewing room had been filled with shocked but grateful members of the Seed-Plant-Bloom-and-Blossom Society of the Garden State of New Jersey—a group commonly known as the Blossoms—whose goal to spruce up every nook and cranny of New Jersey had just received a much needed million-dollar shot in the arm. The buzz was that Goodloe’s dying words to his nephew had been, “Get a job!”

  Had C.B. gone crazy? Was he dangerous? And what does he want with me and Mr. Reilly? Rosita wondered as, even inside her gloves, her fingers turned to ice.

  “Head for the George Washington Bridge,” C.B. ordered.

  At least they were going back to New Jersey, Rosita thought. She wondered if there was any hope of appealing to C.B. to let them go.

  “Mr. Dingle, you may know I have two little boys who need me,” she said softly. “They’re five and six years old, and their father hasn’t supported or seen them in over a year.”

  “My father was a crumb too,” C.B. snapped. “And don’t call me Mr. Dingle. I hate that name.”

  Petey had overheard. “It’s a dumb name,” he agreed. “But your first and middle names are even worse. Thank God for initials. Mr. Reilly, can you believe C.B.’s mom saddled him with a name like Cuthbert Boniface, in honor of her sister’s husband. And then, when the old geezer passes away, he gives just about everything to the stupid Blossoms? Maybe they’ll name a new strain of poison ivy after him.”

  “I spent my whole life pretending to like those stupid names!” C.B. said angrily. “And what do I get for it? Career advice three seconds before he croaks.”

  “I’m sorry about all that, C.B.,” Luke said firmly. “But your problems have nothing to do with us. Why are we here, or more precisely, why are you and Petey in my car?”

  “I beg to differ—” C.B. began.

  Petey interrupted: “I really like that expression. It sounds so classy.”

  “Shut up, Petey,” C.B. snapped. “My proble
m has everything to do with you, Mr. Reilly. But your wife is going to have a million ways to make it up.”

  They were halfway across the George Washington Bridge.

  “Petey, you tell Rosie where to turn. You know the way better than I do.”

  “Take the Fort Lee exit,” Petey began. “We’re going south.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the car pulled onto a narrow road that led down to the Hudson River. Rosita was on the verge of tears. They reached an empty parking area at the river’s edge, facing the skyline of Manhattan. To the left they could see the towering gray span of the George Washington Bridge. The heavy stream of holiday traffic crossing back and forth on its two levels only increased Rosita’s sense of isolation. She had a sudden terrible fear that C.B. and Petey might be planning to shoot them and throw their bodies into the river.

  “Get out of the car,” C.B. ordered. “Remember we both have guns and know how to use them.”

  Petey aimed his revolver at Luke’s head as he and Rosita reluctantly left the familiarity of the car. He gave the weapon a quick twirl. “I watched reruns of The Rifleman doing this,” he explained. “I’m getting real good at twirling.”

  Luke shuddered.

  “I’ll be your escort,” C.B. told him. “We have to hurry. I have a funeral to make.”

  They were forced to walk along the shore, past a deserted marina, to where a dilapidated houseboat, its windows boarded up, was anchored at the end of a narrow dock. The boat rocked up and down, as the river lapped restlessly against its sides. It was obvious to Luke that the worn and aging craft was sitting dangerously low in the water.

  “Take a look at the ice that’s starting to form out there. You can’t be planning to put us on that thing in this weather,” Luke protested.

  “In summertime it’s real nice,” Petey boasted. “I take care of it for the guy who owns it. He’s in Arizona for the winter. His arthritis is something awful.”

  “This isn’t July,” Luke snapped.

  “Sometimes you get bad weather in July too,” Petey responded. “One time there was a real bad storm, and—”

  “Shut up, Petey,” C.B. growled irritably. “I told you, you talk too much.”

  “You would too if you painted rooms all by yourself twelve hours a day. When I’m with people, I like to talk.”

  C.B. shook his head. “He drives me nuts,” he said under his breath. “Now be careful getting onto the boat,” he told Rosita. “I don’t want you to slip.”

  “You can’t do this to us. I’ve got to go home to my boys,” Rosita cried.

  Luke could hear the note of hysteria in Rosita’s voice. The poor kid is scared stiff, he thought. Just a few years younger than Regan and supporting two children on her own. “Help her!” he barked.

  Petey used his free hand to grasp Rosita’s arm as, fearfully, she stepped down onto the deck of the swaying vessel.

  “You’re very good at influencing people, Mr. Reilly,” C.B. complimented. “Let’s hope you’re as successful for the next twenty-four hours.”

  Petey unlocked the door of the cabin and pushed it open, releasing a dank, musty smell into the cold outside air.

  “Whew,” Petey said. “That stink’ll get you every time.”

  “Move it, Petey,” C.B. ordered. “I told you to get an Airwick.”

  “How thoughtful,” Rosita said sarcastically as she followed Petey inside.

  Luke glanced over at the Manhattan skyline, then looked upriver to the George Washington Bridge, taking in the little red lighthouse underneath. I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to see all this again, he thought, as C.B. pressed the gun in the small of his back.

  “Inside, Mr. Reilly. This isn’t the time for sightseeing.”

  Petey turned on the dim overhead light as C.B. closed the door behind them.

  On one side of the small, shabby space was a seating area consisting of a Formica dinette table surrounded by a cracked, imitation-leather banquette; directly opposite was a matching couch. The furniture was all built-in units. A small refrigerator, sink, and stove were adjacent to the table. Luke knew that the two doors to the left probably led to a bedroom and whatever passed for a bathroom.

  “Oh, no,” Rosita gasped.

  Luke followed her stare, and with dismay realized that two sets of chains were bolted to the walls in the seating area. They were the kind of hand and ankle restraints commonly used to restrain criminal defendants in courtrooms. One set was next to the couch, the other near the banquette.

  “You sit here,” Petey directed Rosita. “Keep me covered, C.B., while I put her bracelets on.”

  “I got everybody covered,” C.B said emphatically. “You’re over here, Mr. Reilly.”

  If I were alone, I’d take my chances and try to grab his gun, Luke thought angrily, but I can’t risk Rosita’s life. An instant later, he was sitting on the banquette, chained, with Rosita opposite him on the couch.

  “I should have asked if either one of you cares to use the facilities, but now you’ll just have to wait,” C.B. said cheerfully. “I don’t want to be late for my uncle’s funeral. After all, I am the chief mourner. And Petey needs to get rid of your car. When we come back, Petey’ll bring stuff for your lunch. I won’t be hungry, though. My uncle paid for my meal today, remember, Mr. Reilly?”

  C.B. opened the door as Petey turned out the light. An instant later the door slammed shut, and Luke and Rosita could hear the grating of the key turning in the rusty lock.

  Trapped in the shadowy darkness of the swaying boat, they both remained silent for a moment as the reality of their precarious situation hit both of them.

  Then Rosita asked quietly, “Mr. Reilly, what’s going to happen to us?”

  Luke chose his words carefully. “They’ve already told us they’re looking for money. Assuming that’s all they really want, I promise it will be paid.”

  “All I can think about is my kids. My regular baby-sitter is away until next week, and I don’t trust the girl who’s filling in. Her Christmas dance is tonight. She didn’t want to work at all today, but I begged her to. She expects me home by three.”

  “She wouldn’t leave the boys alone.”

  “You don’t know her, Mr. Reilly—she won’t miss that dance,” Rosita said with certainty, a catch in her voice. “I’ve got to get home. I’ve just got to get home.”

  Regan opened her eyes, groggily sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and yawned. Her bedroom in her parents’ apartment on Central Park South was as comfortably familiar as the one in the family home in New Jersey in which she’d been raised. Today, though, she did not take time to appreciate the charming ambience of the peach-and-soft-green color scheme. She had the sensation of having slept a long time, but when she looked at the clock, she was glad to see it was only a few minutes before two. She wanted to phone the hospital and see how her mother was doing, then catch up with her father. She realized that beyond the fact that she was feeling the effects of the news about her mother’s accident and the hurried red-eye flight, she was filled with undefined anxiety. A quick shower might help me clear my mind, she thought, and then I’ll get moving.

  She put in a call to La Parisienne, the local coffee shop, and placed her usual breakfast order: orange juice, coffee, and a toasted bagel with cream cheese. This is what I love about New York, she thought. By the time I get out of the shower, the delivery boy will be ringing the bell.

  The strong spray of hot water felt good on her back and shoulders. She quickly washed her hair, stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a robe, and rolled a towel around her head.

  Ten seconds later, her face glistening with moisturizer, she answered the door for the delivery boy. She was glad he pretended not to notice her appearance. In his job, he’s seen it all, she thought. But he did produce a sunny smile when she gave him a generous tip.

  Moments later, the bagel unwrapped, the coffee cup in her hand, she phoned her mother’s room. She knew the nurse had to be there, b
ut no one picked up. The ringer is probably turned off, she thought. She hung up and dialed the nurses’ station on that floor.

  What seemed like several minutes passed as she waited for her mother’s nurse to come to the phone. It was a relief to hear the friendly, professional, and reassuring voice of Beverly Carter. She had come on duty this morning, just as Regan was leaving. Although they had spoken only briefly, Regan had instantly liked the slim, fortyish black woman, whom the doctor had introduced as one of their finest private nurses.

  “Hi, Beverly. How’s my mother?”

  “She’s been sleeping since you left.”

  “I’ve been sleeping since I left,” Regan laughed. “When she wakes up, tell her I called. Have you heard from my father?”

  “Not so far.”

  “I’m surprised. But he did have that funeral. I’ll give him a call. Tell my mother she can always reach me on my cell phone.”

  Next, Regan dialed the funeral home. Austin Grady, the second in command at “Reilly’s Remains,” as Regan and her mother dubbed the funeral homes, answered. His initial greeting, as usual, was suitably subdued.

  “Austin, it’s Regan.”

  The somber tone turned jolly. “Regan, hello.”

  Regan was always amazed at the way Austin could switch gears so rapidly, his demeanor of the moment dictated by the demands of his job. As Luke had observed, he was perfectly suited to this line of work. Like a surgeon, he was able to disassociate himself from surrounding emotions.

  “Is my father there?” she asked.

  “No, I haven’t spoken to him since he called early this morning to send for a car. Your poor mother,” he commiserated in a most upbeat tone. “What’s going to happen next? And I know your father was really looking forward to the trip to Hawaii. I understand she tripped on a new rug you bought her in Ireland.”

  “Yes,” Regan said quickly, guilt about her purchase washing over her again. As her best friend, Kit, always said, “Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving.”