Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries)

by Donna Andrews

  Charlie had replaced the hideous sofa bed I remembered with a nice new futon sofa. But the bathroom was still separated from the rest of the apartment by the same curtain made of a vintage sixties Indian-print cotton bedspread.

  Still, it was cozy. And filled with the most delicious smells—turkey and gingerbread and pumpkin pie. And decorated just as extravagantly as our house was, though clearly by different hands. The bathroom curtain had been drawn aside to reveal a skinny six-foot spruce tree occupying the shower stall—one of the few spaces large enough to hold it. The tree, the rest of the bathroom, and the whole apartment were decorated with red and gold paper chains, lopsided stars cut out of gold paper, and garlands of evergreen held together with Scotch tape, from which I deduced that Michael and the boys had picked the vegetation themselves. A papier-mâché Santa and nine papier-mâché reindeer hung from the ceiling. The power cord to Rudolph’s flashing red nose was wrapped in tinsel and taped across the ceiling and down one wall until it could reach a vacant outlet And taped to all the walls were Christmas posters painted by the boys. Wise men riding on beasts that looked a lot more like llamas than camels. Mary and Joseph bending tenderly over a baby Jesus who seemed to be occupying a car seat rather than a manger. Santa Claus, Mrs. Claus, and the elves surrounded by a three-foot-high avalanche of presents—including what I suspected was a giant hamster cage. A giant Christmas tree almost hidden by the wrapped presents piled around it. A mantel from which hung a line of stockings large enough for giants.

  “Did you guys do all this?” I asked. “It’s beautiful!”

  Josh beamed. Jamie, overcome with praise, buried his head in the sofa cushions with his rump sticking up, ostrichlike.

  Just then I spotted a completely unexpected sight.

  “Did Charlie actually add a fireplace?” I exclaimed.

  “Couple years ago,” Michael said. “He added one onto the side of his living room, which is right upstairs from here, and decided it wouldn’t take too much more to add one down here.”

  “We can make s’mores now,” Jamie suggested.

  “After dinner,” Michael said.

  “Can we hang stockings here, too?” Josh asked.

  “No, we’ve already got stockings at home.”

  “But Santa could come here, too,” Josh protested.

  “Mommy, listen,” Jamie said. “It’s our Baptists.” He scrambled over to the end table where the soft strains of a choir singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” were coming from a portable speaker hooked to Michael’s iPod. Suddenly “Adeste Fidelis” blasted forth at such incredible volume that we all flinched and Michael hurried to turn the volume down.

  “Sorry, Daddy,” Jamie said.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “He’s learned how to operate the iPod,” he added to me.

  “I’m impressed,” I said. “And that does sound like the New Life Baptist choir.”

  “It is,” Michael said. “I got a couple of sound techs from the drama department to record the Saturday night concert. They’ve cleaned up the files, and now you can buy a copy of the concert on the church Web site for a small donation to their cleanup fund.”

  “Fabulous,” I said.

  Since the kitchen really was too small for more than one person, the boys and I sang along with the Baptists while Michael finished the dinner preparations. Finally a timer went off, and he ran upstairs with potholders, then returned carrying an enormous roasting pan.

  “Turkey’s ready,” he said as he lifted the lid, filling the entire apartment with the mouthwatering scent of the turkey. “I actually had to borrow Charlie’s oven upstairs to cook it in—I’d forgotten how tiny this kitchen is. But for the rolls of refrigerator biscuits—this oven should work fine.”

  “Mommy, want gwandbewwy sauce,” Jamie said.

  “Grandberry?” I echoed. “Oh, cranberry sauce. Right. Do you want me to start on the biscuits or—”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Don’t answer it,” Michael and I said in unison. But Josh, vastly proud of his doorman’s job, was already opening the door.

  “Gampa!” he exclaimed. “Come eat turkey?”

  “If I’m invited.” Dad looked plaintive.

  Michael and I exchanged looks. He raised an eyebrow. Well, it wasn’t as if we’d been trying to avoid Dad. I nodded.

  “You’re allowed to stay on one condition,” Michael said. “Tell us how you figured out we were here.”

  “I deduced it.” Dad sounded very proud of himself. “This morning at church I was talking to Clyde Flugleman from the turkey farm, and found out Michael had bought a bird, so I knew you were planning something. And then after services, I stopped for gas at Osgood Shiffley’s station and overheard him giving directions to a young man who was having trouble finding this address. And when he said he was turkey sitting for his professor—well, I figured it out immediately. But don’t worry—your secret’s safe with me.”

  “So much for keeping secrets in a small town,” I murmured.

  “Have a seat,” Michael said.

  “I brought some rolls.” Dad held up a bag from the Caerphilly Bakery that was large enough to contain a year’s supply of bread. “Margie at the bakery made them fresh this morning.” He held the bag open slightly and we all sniffed eagerly at the warm, yeasty smell.

  “Much better than refrigerator biscuits,” I said. “Michael, do we have any wine?”

  “Oops,” Michael said. “I meant to get some.”

  “I can go.” Dad stood up. “It won’t take—”

  “No, sit,” Michael said. “I can borrow some from Charlie and replace it later.”

  “Is there anything you want me to do, then?” Dad asked.

  “Story,” Jamie demanded. He handed Dad the pile of Christmas children’s books Michael had brought along to entertain the boys.

  Another knock at the door. This time Josh opened it to let in Rob.

  “Hey,” Rob said. “Any chance of a bite of turkey? I brought a contribution.”

  He held up a container of ice cream in one hand, and in the other another large bag from the Caerphilly Bakery. From the odor of fresh-baked chocolate that had followed him into the room I suspected the parcel contained either brownies or chocolate chip cookies.

  “How did you find us?” I asked. “Not that you’re not welcome.”

  “I knew from the way Dad was acting that he was up to something,” Rob said. “So I followed him to the bakery. And then when he left, I went in and Margie told me all about it.”

  “Oh, dear,” Dad said. “It never occurred to me that Margie would spill the beans.”

  Rob shrugged.

  “I’ll take those.” I relieved him of his parcels. Yes, I was right—brownies and chocolate chip cookies. Rob made a beeline for the fire.

  “Before you get too comfortable, go upstairs and get a couple more chairs,” Michael said, handing Rob a key ring.

  “Can do.” He bounded out, forgetting to close the door behind him.

  “‘Twas the night before Christmas,’” Dad began. “‘When all through the house.’”

  “I’m not sure I can fit the ice cream in the freezer,” I said.

  “Stick it outside the door,” Michael said. “It won’t melt out there. And while you’re at it, shut the door, will you?”

  “‘Not a creature was stirring—’”

  I stashed the ice cream outside and was turning to come back in when—

  “Hello?”

  I looked up to see Rose Noire carefully coming down the narrow stairway with a huge covered bowl in her hands.

  “Now I know you didn’t come for the turkey,” I said. Roast turkey was only one of many reasons I couldn’t imagine becoming a vegetarian, but Rose Noire never even seemed tempted.

  “Heavens, no!” Rose Noire shuddered slightly. “But I am fond of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. I brought a big salad.”

  “How in the world did you find us?” I asked.
>
  “That nice Mr. Gardner who lives upstairs bought half a dozen special gift baskets to take to his mother and aunt and sisters,” she said. “And when I delivered them yesterday morning, he was down here tidying up a bit, and he told me how sweet it was that his friend was borrowing his old bachelor apartment to have a quiet little Christmas dinner with his wife and twin sons. I knew it had to be you. He probably didn’t know we were related. And I wasn’t going to barge in until I realized from the hints he was dropping that your father knew and was planning to come.”

  “He was dropping hints?” I winced. “We’ll have the whole family here before long.”

  “I doubt if any of the others know about Mr. Gardner,” she said.

  “Well, come in,” I said. “We’ll have to send Rob back upstairs for more chairs.”

  We’d gotten everyone seated, Dad’s reading was keeping the boys entertained, the rolls were warming in the oven, and Michael was beginning to carve the turkey before the next knock came. This time I answered.

  “Horace,” I said. “Welcome. Did you follow Dad or Rob or Rose Noire?”

  “Actually, I figured from some hints your dad dropped that you guys were up to something,” Horace said. “So I put the word out over the department radio and one of the other deputies spotted all your cars here.”

  “I was not dropping hints!” Dad protested.

  “Did you bring anything?” Jamie asked.

  “Jamie!” I said. “That’s no way to greet a guest.”

  “Actually, I brought your grandfather and Caroline and Mrs. Waterston, if that’s okay,” Horace said. “Seems they all have a hankering for an old-fashioned Christmas dinner.”

  The apartment seemed to get even smaller as they all trooped in.

  “Lovely idea,” Michael’s mother said, handing me a bottle of red wine. “A nice quiet little immediate family event before tomorrow’s madhouse.”

  “Merry Christmas!” Grandfather stepped into the room, holding a second bottle. “Are we in time for dinner?”

  “Monty, you old goat!” As she entered, Caroline pretended to swat him with one of the bottles of white wine she was carrying. “You haven’t even been asked to stay yet.”

  “Well, we will be, won’t we?” He frowned at me. “You are serving normal food, aren’t you? None of this fancy slop.”

  “Shush!” Caroline hissed.

  “Someone go bring the dogs in before they get cold,” Michael’s mother said. “And the ducks.”

  “Ducks?” Michael and I spoke in unison, and not without alarm.

  Dad and Rob went out and returned. Dad was leading Spike and Tinkerbell, while Rob was carrying a cage containing two ducks.

  “Ducks are social animals,” Michael’s mother said. “Your grandfather thought Ducky Lucky could use a friend.”

  “Don’t worry,” Grandfather said. “They’re both going back to the zoo with us tonight.”

  “Now we just need hamsters,” Jamie said.

  “Guinea pigs,” Josh contradicted.

  “Okay,” Jamie said. “Hamsters and guinea pigs.”

  “I suppose we should be glad they didn’t bring the llamas,” I muttered.

  “Not yet, anyway,” Michael said.

  “Have a seat, everyone, if you can find one,” I said aloud. “Rob, more chairs.”

  “I’ll keep slicing,” Michael said.

  “Put these on ice,” Caroline said, handing me her wine bottles. “Monty, Dahlia, give her the red wine. We should open one to let it breathe a little before dinner.”

  We kept Rob busy ferrying chairs, dishes, glasses, and silverware down from Charlie’s kitchen. He even found a card table upstairs, and a tablecloth large enough to cover both it and the small parson’s table that had served Michael and me as both dining table and desk. At last we were all seated, a little tightly packed, but most of us had at least enough space to set down our glasses, if not our plates. The ducks were perched on the coffee table, where they could see the meal—I hoped they either didn’t notice we were eating turkey or weren’t sentimental about their distant cousins. We’d put food and water down for the dogs, but both preferred to curl up under the table, hoping for handouts. They probably wouldn’t be disappointed.

  Michael had brought a lot of candles—the LED faux candles we’d taken to using since the boys began walking and grabbing things—and when we finished scattering them all around the room their flickering and the dancing flames of the fire made our makeshift dining table look pretty nice after all.

  “Who wants to say grace?” Michael asked.

  “God bless us, every one!” Jamie shouted.

  “I think that covers the situation,” Grandfather said. “I’ll take some turkey.”

  “Gwandbewwy sauce,” Jamie said, holding out his plate.

  Everyone was so busy passing dishes and waving plates that I was the only one who noticed that someone else had knocked on the door. Rather softly. I was closest, so I went over and opened the door.

  Mother. Carrying a small dish.

  “Hello, dear,” she said.

  “Mother,” I said. “What a surprise.”

  Behind me all conversation came to a stop.

  “Gamma!” Jamie exclaimed.

  “Gamma want turkey?” Josh asked.

  “Such a nice idea,” Mother said. “Tomorrow’s dinners will be so big and formal. A nice little intimate gathering tonight is just the thing.”

  “A lot less intimate than they were planning,” Grandfather said. “With all of us barging in.”

  “Monty!” Caroline said, swatting him for real.

  “I assume Meg and Michael were keeping their plans close to the vest to avoid having too big a crowd,” Mother said. “And no doubt would have invited all of us had the unfortunate events of the last day or two not distracted them from getting everything ready as they planned.”

  Did she really believe that, or was she just giving us a graceful out?

  “We should have realized that if we’d reached out, all of you would have been happy to pitch in,” I said loud. “As you have without even being asked. Just one question, Mother: How did you find out where and when we were having this?”

  “I have my methods, dear.” She smiled very sweetly, and I knew it was no use. She’d never tell.

  “Rob, fetch another chair,” I said.

  “Roger,” he said, and raced out.

  “I was planning to surprise you with a small, plain turkey at my dinner,” she said. “Will you still want to eat turkey tomorrow?”

  “I can always eat turkey,” I said.

  “I could eat a whole turkey, Gamma,” Josh said.

  “Me, too,” Jamie added.

  “I brought tomato aspic,” Mother said handing me the bowl. “I know it’s always been one of your favorites.”

  As I nudged dishes aside to find a place for the aspic, Mother stood for a few moments, surveying the apartment. Back when Michael and I had been living there, she had disapproved of it so strongly that she’d showered us with paint and fabric samples and so many decorating books that we’d taken to using stacks of them for our end table and coffee table. I never had managed to convince her that no amount of decorating would make the place any bigger. She reached out toward one of the boys’ posters—one that was particularly crooked—and I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her to leave it alone; I liked it that way.

  But she only smoothed down the tape to make sure it was securely fastened and nodded with approval before sitting down at what had been Rob’s place. Rob raced back in with another folding chair and found a place to put it where he could set his plate atop the duck cage.

  “My, this is nice.” Mother surveyed the table with an equally approving eye. “Perhaps I should go retro next year. A very traditional holiday dinner.”

  I saw Michael’s mother frown slightly, and her face took on a familiar competitive look. Dare I hope that next year would see a duel over who could serve not only the most elab
orate but the most traditional dinner?

  “Merry Christmas, everyone!” Mother said.

  She lifted her wineglass—well, it had been Rob’s wineglass, but it was hers now. We all followed suit, even the boys, who were drinking cranberry juice in their stemmed glasses.

  “Merry Christmas to all,” Josh exclaimed.

  “And to all a good night,” Jamie finished.

  ALSO BY DONNA ANDREWS

  The Hen of the Baskervilles Some Like It Hawk

  The Real Macaw

  Stork Raving Mad

  Swan for the Money

  Six Geese A-Slaying

  Cockatiels at Seven

  The Penguin Who Knew Too Much No Nest for the Wicket

  Owls Well That Ends Well

  We’ll Always Have Parrots Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos Murder with Puffins

  Murder with Peacocks

  About the Author

  DONNA ANDREWS has won the Agatha, Anthony, and Barry Awards, an RT Book Reviews Award for best first novel, and three Lefty and two Toby Bromberg Awards for funniest mystery. She is a member of MWA, Sisters in Crime, and the Private Investigators and Security Association. Andrews lives in Reston, Virginia. Visit her online at www.donnaandrews.com.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

  DUCK THE HALLS. Copyright © 2013 by Donna Andrews. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover illustration by Maggie Parr

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows: Andrews, Donna.