Murder Most Merry

by ed. Abigail Browining

  “Her romantic novels are paying for things now. Did you notice that Kiss Me, My Pirate was number two on the Times—”

  “I extract the book section from the Sunday paper with surgical gloves and toss it immediately into the trash unopened. To make certain I never see so much as a mention of that slop she cranks out or, worse, a publicity photo of her mottled countenance.”

  “Let’s get back to the point. I suggested to her back then that she return Screwy Santa to you.”

  “And?”

  “You don’t want to hear what she said,” his daughter assured him. “It had, among other things, to do with Hell freezing over. But can’t you dig up another dummy by Friday?”

  “Impossible, that’s the only one extant. We lost the backup copy during that ill-fated nostalgia tour through the Midwest years ago.”

  “Couldn’t you carve another, since you built the others?”

  “Kid, I may’ve fudged the truth a bit when I used to recount Screwy’s history to you.” he said. “In reality, the dummies were built by a prop man at the old WWAG-TV studios. And he, alas, is long in his grave.”

  “This is very disillusioning,” Tish complained. “One of the few things I still admired about you, Dad, was your woodcarving ability.”

  “Listen, couldn’t you call Mitzi and tell her that I’m expiring, that I want to be reunited with my dummy for one last time before I go on to glory?”

  “She’d burst out laughing if I told her you were about to kick off. Dad. And probably dance a little jig.”

  “Okay, suppose we make a business deal with her? Offer the old shrew, say, fifteen percent of the take.”

  “What take? Have a Good Day, USA! pays scale. I know. I did one last year to plug my abortion on Intensive Care.”

  “You looked terrific on that broadcast.”

  “You didn’t even see it.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No, and you admitted as much at the time.”

  “Well, back to my immediate problem.”

  “Why don’t you use one of the old Screwy Santa dolls? They look a lot like the dummy.”

  “Except they don’t have movable mouths.”

  “It’d be better than nothing. I can loan you mine,” she offered. “It’s stuffed away in a closet.”

  “No. kid, I really have to have the real dummy.”

  “Afraid there’s nothing I can do. I mean, if I so much as mention that you need Screwy Santa, Mom’s liable to take an axe to him.”

  “Well, thanks anyway for listening to an old man’s woes and—”

  “Here comes the gong again,” his daughter said. “Anyhow. I have to go put on some clothes. Bye.”

  After hanging up, he stayed on the sofa and brooded. After about ten minutes he said aloud, “I’ll have to outwit Mitzi.”

  The snow improved the next morning, giving a Christmas-card gloss to the usually dismal view from his small living room window.

  At ten a.m. he put the first phase of his latest plan into operation. He phoned his former wife’s mansion over in Westport.

  “Residence of Mitzi Sunsett Sayler,” answered a crisp female voice.

  “Yes, how are you?” inquired Oscar in a drawling, slightly British accent. “Ogden Brokenshire here.”

  “Yes?”

  “Ogden Brokenshire of the Broadcasting Hall of Fame. Have I the honor of addressing the esteemed novelist Mitzi Sunsett Sayler herself?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Brokenshire. I’m Clarissa Dempster, Mrs. Sayler’s secretary.”

  “I see, my dear. Well, perhaps I can explain my mission to you, child, and you can explain the situation to your employer.”

  “That depends on—”

  “We would like to enshrine Screwy Santa.”

  “Enshrine whom?”

  “The ingenious dummy that Mrs. Sayler’s one-time husband used in the days when he brought joy and gladness to the hearts of—”

  “Oh, that thing,” said the secretary. “My parents, wisely, never allowed me to watch that dreadful show when I was a child.”

  “Nonetheless, dear child, our board has voted, unanimously I might add, to place Screwy Santa on permanent display in the museum.”

  “Hold on a moment. I’ll speak to Mrs. Sayler.” The secretary went away.

  In less than two minutes Mitzi started talking. “Who is this ?”

  “Good morning, I’m Ogden Brokenshire. As I was explaining to your able secretary, my dear Mrs. Sayler, I’m an executive with the Broadcasting Hall of—”

  “You haven’t improved at all, you no-talent cheesehead.”

  “I beg your pardon, madam?”

  “Oscar, love, you never could do a believable Brit.”

  “I don’t happen to be British, dear lady. The fact that I was educated in Boston sometimes gives people that impression.”

  “Forget it, Oscar,” advised his erstwhile wife. “I don’t know why you want to get your clammy hands on that wooden dornick, but you’ll never have him. And, dear heart, if you ever try to communicate with me again—in whatever wretched voice—I’ll sic the law on you.” She, rather gently, hung up on him.

  “Looks like,” decided Oscar, “I’m going to need a new plan.”

  He kept working on plans for nearly an hour, pacing his small living room, muttering, pausing now and then to gaze out at the falling snow.

  Then the phone rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “We have hit a slight snag,” announced Vince Mxyzptlk.

  “Don’t they want me?”

  “Sure they want you, old buddy. Hell, they’re prowling the lofty corridors at Consolidated crying out for you,” said the youthful agent. “In fact, they can’t wait until Friday.”

  “What do you mean—do they want me to do a separate segment on my

  own?”

  “Not exactly. But Liz, and her boss, are very anxious to see you tomorrow.”

  Frowning. Oscar nodded. “An audition, huh?”

  “Sort of. yeah,” admitted the agent. “It has nothing, really, to do with you. But when one of their scouts unearthed the clunk who used to be Mr. Slimjim on that Mr. Slimjim & Baby Gumdrop turkey, he turned out to weigh three hundred pounds now and possess not a single tooth. So, as you can understand. Oscar, they want to see and hear all these wonderful stars of yesteryear in advance.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “At three p.m. Is that a problem for you?”

  “Not exactly, but I—”

  “I’m getting a lot of interest in you. Once you do well on Friday, the jobs will start rolling in.”

  “I understand, it’s only—”

  “I needn’t remind you. Oscar, that a lot of talents in your present position would kill for this opportunity.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed. “See you tomorrow.”

  He had a great new plan worked out by three that afternoon. But he had to wait until after dark to get going on it.

  Dressed in dark clothes, Oscar slipped quietly out of his apartment and into the lean-to that passed for a garage. As usual, none of the roads in the sparsely inhabited complex had been plowed. The snow was soft, though, and not too high, and Oscar was able to drive down to the plowed lanes and byways of New Beckford without any serious delays.

  He drove over to nearby Westport and parked in the lot behind Borneo’s. There were only a few spaces left and he could see that the restaurant-bar was packed with people. The food and drink at Borneo’s was just passable, but it sat only a half mile over the hill from Mitzi’s mansion.

  As he was crossing the lot a fire engine went hooting by. headed downhill.

  Borneo himself was behind the bar. “Evening, Oscar.”

  He managed to elbow his way up to a narrow spot at the ebony bar. “The usual.”

  Borneo scratched at his stomach through the fabric of his bright tropical shirt. “Refresh my memory.”

  “Club soda, alas.”

  “Coming up.”

&nb
sp; Outside in the snowy night another fire engine went roaring by, followed by what sounded like a couple of police cars.

  Oscar hoped all this activity wouldn’t foul up his plan. So far everything was going well. People were seeing him, he was establishing an alibi. In another ten or fifteen minutes he’d go back to the john. Then he’d slip out the side door.

  Once in the open, he’d make his way down to the mansion. Being careful, of course, that no one noticed him sneaking off.

  Mitzi, being a skinflint, and in spite of her great wealth, had never bothered to put in a new alarm system. The original setup was still in place, and he knew how to disarm that.

  Okay, once he got inside, after making certain that she was alone, he’d ... well, he’d use the length of pipe he dug up in the garage this afternoon.

  Once Mitzi was dead and done for. he’d gather up enough jewels and valuables to make it look like the usual burglary. Then he’d rescue Screwy Santa from the mud room and get the hell away.

  Back here at the parking lot he’d stash the loot in his car, slip unobtrusively back into the place, and tell Borneo he’d had a sudden touch of stomach flu and had to stay back in the bathroom a few minutes.

  It wasn’t exactly foolproof, but it ought to work. He’d own Screwy again and Mitzi would be gone from his life.

  He chuckled at the thought. Yeah, the idea of killing her off had come to him this afternoon and he’d taken to it immediately.

  Tish might be a little suspicious about how he came by the dummy. He’d tell her something along the lines that he’d found the heirs of the old defunct prop man at the last minute and. gosh, they had a spare Screwy Santa. He’d always been a gifted liar and conning his daughter wouldn’t be all that difficult.

  “Don’t worry about that now,” he told himself.

  “How’s that?” inquired Borneo, setting a glass of sparkling water down in front of him.

  “Nothing, I was just—”

  “That must be some fire.” Borneo paused to listen as yet another truck went howling by out in the night.

  Oscar sipped the club soda, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the dark bar top. He’d make his move in about five minutes.

  The phone behind the bar rang and Borneo caught it up. “Borneo’s. Huh? Channel eight? Okay.” Hanging up, he switched channels on the large television set mounted above the mirror.

  And there was Mitzi, glowering out of the screen. Wearing a fuzzy bathrobe and not enough makeup, she was being interviewed by a slim black newswoman and gesturing at the mansion that was blazing behind her up across the wide night lawn.

  “Good God,” muttered Oscar.

  “That’s just downhill from us,” observed Borneo.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  The entire sprawling house was going up in flames.

  “What exactly happened, Mrs. Sayler?” the reporter asked her.

  “It was that goddamn cheesehead.”

  “Which cheesehead would that be?”

  “Screwy Santa, that abominable dummy.”

  “I’m not certain that I quite under—”

  “Aw, you’re too damn young. Everybody is these days. I always knew that dornick would do me in eventually.”

  “You mean this was arson?”

  “I mean, dear heart, that I decided to cremate that loathsome lump of wood. I took him and his shoebox, carried them into the living room, and tossed him into the fireplace.”

  Oscar pressed both hands to his chest. “There goes my comeback.”

  Mitzi continued, “Then... I don’t know. His stupid beard seemed to explode... flames came shooting out of the fireplace. They hit the drapes and those caught fire... then the damn furniture started to go.” She shook her head angrily. “Now the whole shebang is ablaze.” Looking directly into the camera, she added, “If you’re out there watching, Oscar...” She gave him the finger.

  Borneo raised his shaggy eyebrows high. “Hey, is she talking to you, Oscar?”

  “I’m not in the mood for conversation just now.” Abandoning his club soda, he walked out into the night.

  His daughter phoned a few minutes shy of midnight. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “I’m way beyond worry, kid.”

  “When I caught the report about Mom’s mansion on the news, I figured you’d assume that Screwy Santa was gone.”

  “Certainly I assumed that. There was Mitzi. fatter than ever, hollering for all the world to hear that my poor hapless creation was the cause of the whole blinking conflagration.”

  “It was a ringer, Dad.”

  “Eh?”

  “I dropped by to visit Mom this afternoon and when she went away to yell at Clarissa, I substituted my old Screwy Santa doll for your dummy,” explained Tish. “In a way, I may be responsible for that dreadful fire. The doll’s a lot more flammable than—”

  “No, there was some parent flap at the time, but we proved beyond a doubt that the dolls were perfectly safe if—”

  “I have your dummy here in my apartment.”

  “You’ve really got Screwy?”

  “Yes, he’s sitting on my bed right this minute,” she assured her father. “It’s lucky I went out there when I did and saved him before Mom got going on her plan to destroy the little guy. Why did you go and telephone her and make it crystal clear that you were in desperate need of him? That was dippy, since it inspired her to destroy him.”

  “I didn’t call her as myself. But somehow she penetrated my—”

  “That’s because, trust me, you do a terrible British voice. When do you need him?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I thought you weren’t doing the show until Friday.”

  “Well, and keep this to yourself, kid, there’s a possibility they’ll devote a separate seg all to me.”

  “That would be great.”

  “So can I pick him up tomorrow?”

  “Sure, come by around one and I’ll take you to lunch.”

  “Can’t make lunch, because I have some people to see while I’m in the Apple. But I’ll pop in, give you a paternal hug, and grab Screwy Santa,” he said. “Thanks. You’re a perfect daughter.”

  “Perfect for you, I guess. Bye.”

  Everything worked out well for Oscar. He did, in fact, do a segment of his own, which ran nearly four minutes, on Have a Good Day, USA! And Vince Mxyzptlk was able to get him an impressive batch of other jobs. At the moment there’s also the possibility of a new kid show for Oscar and Screwy Santa on cable.

  Oscar was able to leave his forlorn condo for a three-bedroom colonial in Brimstone, Connecticut, last month.

  While he was packing, he came across the length of pipe he’d intended to use on Mitzi. He slapped it across the palm of his hand a few times, and, sighing, tossed it into a carton.

  PASS THE PARCEL – Peter Lovesey

  The roads were treacherous on Christmas Day and Andy and Gemma took longer than they expected to drive the twenty-five miles to Stowmarket. While Gemma concentrated on keeping the car from skidding, Andy complained about the party in prospect. “You and I must be crazy doing this. I mean, what are we putting our lives at risk for? Infantile games that your sister insists on playing simply because in her tiny mind that’s the only permissible way of celebrating. The food isn’t anything special. If Pauline produces those enormous cheese straws with red streaks like varicose veins, I’ll throw up. I promise you. All over the chocolate log.”

  Gemma said, “We’re not going for the food.”

  “The games?”

  “The family.”

  “Your brother Reg, you mean? The insufferable Reg? I can’t wait to applaud his latest stunt. What’s he planning for this year, would you say? A stripogram? Or a police raid? He’s a real bunch of laughs, is Reg.”

  Gemma negotiated a sharp bend and said, “Will you shut up about Reg? There are others in my family.”

  “Of course. There’s Geoff. He’ll be sitting in the most comfortable chair and spe
aking to nobody.”

  “Give it a rest, will you?” Gemma said through her teeth.

  “I’d like to. They’re showing Apocalypse Now on BBC2. I’d like to be giving it a rest in front of the telly with a large brandy in my fist.”

  Andy’s grumbling may have been badly timed, but it was not unreasonable. Any fair-minded person would have viewed Christmas with this particular set of in-laws as an infliction. There were four in the current generation of Weavers, all in their thirties now. the sisters Gemma and Pauline and the brothers Reg and Geoff. Pauline, the hostess, eight years Gemma’s junior, was divorced. She would have been devastated if the family had spent Christmas anywhere else but in Chestnut Lodge, the mansion she had occupied with her former husband and kept as her share of the settlement. No one risked devastating Pauline. As the youngest, she demanded and received everybody’s cooperation.

  “I could endure the food if it wasn’t for the games,” Andy started up again. “Why do we put up with them? Why not something intelligent instead of charades and—God help us—pass the parcel? I know, you’re going to tell me it’s a tradition in the family, but we don’t have to be lumbered with traditions forevermore just because sweet little Pauline likes playing the games she did when she was a kid. She’s thirty-one now, for Christ’s sake. Does she sleep with a teddy bear?”

  When they reached Stowmarket and swung left, Andy decently dipped into his reserve of bonhomie. “They probably dread it as much as we do, poor sods. Let’s do our best to be convivial. You did bring the brandy?”

  “On the backseat with the presents,” said Gemma.

  Chestnut Lodge had been built about 1840 for a surgeon. Not much had been done to the exterior since. The stonework wanted cleaning and there were weeds growing through the gravel drive.

  Someone had left a parcel the size of a shoebox on the doorstep. Andy picked it up and carried it in with their presents.

  “So sorry, darling,” Gemma told Pauline. “The roads were like a rink in places. Are we the last?”

  “No, Reg isn’t here yet.”

  “Wanting to make the usual grand entrance?”

  “Probably.”

  “You’re wearing your pearls. And what a gorgeous dress.”