by Jess Lourey
Thirty-five
Sunday, December 23, Evening
The flurries are not thick enough to deter travel, but they do provide a natural camouflage to anyone out walking. The swirling winter crystals frolic under the candy-cane swathed streetlights, playing tricks on the eyes and promising a mythical white Christmas. The snowflakes land with a dancer’s precision on the thatched roof of the nativity bower, others twirling to alight on the manger that will hold baby Jesus.
The killer strolls past the St. Joseph nativity scene staging twice, hands thrust deep in pockets. It looks barren with only the empty manger and straw bales inside. The church rising behind it is grand, pointed spires racing toward the heavens and nearly disappearing into the night sky strung with stars as bright as chips of glass, but the nativity scene is something else. It’s humble and plain. Just as it should be.
The snow is nice, gentle and soft, but even without its disguising presence, no one will question the killer. That just comes with the territory. A car drives by and honks. It’s a startling sound, and the killer jumps, only a little. The car careens around the corner and disappears. Probably teenagers on a joy ride.
The doll is back in the killer’s vehicle, a silver sedan, parked in front of a bar named after some literary character. Sir Lancelot? Sir Frodo? The sedan is the killer’s own vehicle. It’s too easy, these murders. It’s making the killer complacent, almost, and still, it won’t make any difference. No one has guessed it, not after almost three years. One more erasure, and the killer will be done setting women straight for another year, at least. Maybe done forever.
Setting women straight? No, you’ll never be done with that. There will always be those who ask for it. Now, get to it. You came to clean out this town.
The killer’s eyes narrow. How could she be audible? The car is blocks away. That’s why the killer had left her. The commands have become shrill, erratic, more demanding than ever. It makes it difficult to do what needs to be done. Still, she makes sense. The killer shouldn’t waste any more time. Idle hands are the devil’s tools.
TVs glimmer from the front windows of most of the houses. A group of carolers is working their way down Mill Street, and their slightly off-key holiday warbling makes the night feel safer, somehow. The tune is “O Come All Ye Faithful.”
The killer drops the candy cane into two different mailboxes, four blocks apart, walking right up to the house for both of them. The Relax Inn will be more difficult, but in the end, the killer just walks directly in, mounts the stairs to the second story, and hangs the candy cane over the doorknob. The teenager in headphones at the front desk is so busy texting, she doesn’t even glance up.
Thirty-six
Monday, December 24
“Mira! Wake up. They caught the killer!”
I’d tried rolling away from her persistent shaking, burrowing into the pilled comforter. Then I processed her words. Once I realized what she’d said, I sat straight up and stared at the TV at the foot of the bed. I ignored my reflection, all crazy hair and bleary eyes, in the mirror to the left of it. “Turn it up.”
My mother had been listening to the news quietly so as not to wake me but raised the volume immediately. Even Luna turned her attention toward the TV. Tiger Pop hopped off the bed, miffed that he’d been woken early.
The screen featured a reporter out of Minneapolis offering a recap. Underneath her, the words “Suspected Candy Cane Killer in Custody” scrolled across the screen.
“… live in Agate City, Minnesota, where twelve women all received Christmas cards signed ‘Dead by December.’ Our news team has obtained a copy of one of the cards and is currently having it analyzed by specialists, but initial reports suggest that the handwriting matches that of the Candy Cane Killer, who left a note at the home of two of his Chicago victims and one of his Wisconsin victims. Local police report having a man in custody whom they caught delivering the cards. I repeat, police do have a man in custody who they believe may be the Candy Cane Killer.”
My blood was pumping loud. I couldn’t believe the good news. I’d begun to think that the killer was some sort of a demon, incapable of being caught. My mom fell into the bed beside me and put her arm around me. On TV, a serious-looking 20-something woman in full winter gear was pulled into the shot. People milled in the background in front of a grocery store.
“I have with me Annika Hahn, one of the recipients of the ‘Dead by December’ cards. Ms. Hahn, what can you tell me about this card?”
She pushed her hair behind the ear and stared earnestly into the camera. “I found it outside my door when I went to grab the newspaper. I called the police right away. They have the letter now.”
“What did it say?”
She glanced from the camera to the reporter and back to the camera. Her eyes were wide, guileless and blue. “It wished me a Merry Christmas and was signed, ‘With Love, Dead by December.’ It had a picture of mistletoe on the front, and two candy canes underneath. The candy canes were crossed, like two Civil War swords.”
“What did you think when you opened the card?”
“I was scared.” It was simple and true, and spoke for every woman in Minnesota. Yet, there was something odd about this whole newscast, something I couldn’t get a bead on.
“Can you believe it?” my mom asked, holding me tighter. “They caught the monster. It’s a Christmas miracle.”
I squeezed her back and smiled uneasily. “Yeah. Um, I’m going to grab the morning newspaper at the front desk, okay? I want to see if they have any coverage of this.”
My mom nodded happily and went into the bathroom. I heard the shower start up as I tugged on the jeans I’d worn yesterday. I fastened a bra on under my pajama T-shirt and pulled my hair into a half-dreadlock, half-ponytail array. I must have slept deeply last night to have messed my hair up to this degree, but I didn’t feel rested. My sleep had been haunted by nightmares of sharp metal teeth and crying children. I shivered at the recollection.
Sliding the chain lock off and releasing the deadbolt, I yanked the door open. I was all the way through it before I realized I hadn’t grabbed our room key. I’d need it if Mom was still in the shower when I returned. I stuck my hand out to stop the door from closing and automatically locking behind me. The motion upset the candy cane that’d been hanging off the knob and sent it to the carpeted floor.
Thirty-seven
The shock was paralyzing. The door swung shut and latched behind me. I stared at the candy cane against the burgundy carpet, the winning ticket in the Minnesota death lotto. It was an ordinary, garden-variety candy cane, the kind you buy at a grocery store check-out line on a whim this time of year. Six inches long in the straight part, elegantly curved, tightly-wrapped in cellophane, red chasing white chasing red. A peppermint stick. The mascot of Christmas candy for over a century. Innocent, sweet, minty, it sat motionless, a dozing snake waiting for me to reach and then it would strike, flooding my veins with hot, minted poison. The floor began to heave, and I thrust out my hand to steady myself.
“Are you all right?”
Startled, I glanced to my left. A middle-aged hotel maid was reaching for a pile of tiny shampoos in her cart, her expression worried.
“Yes, I’m, uh, I accidentally locked myself out of my room, that’s all. And my mom is in the shower.”
A relieved smile warmed her face. “I can help you. Here.” She tugged a key out of the massive ring at her waist and walked over to the door. “You’re the one with a dog and a cat in there, aren’t you? They’ve been so quiet.”
“Thank you,” I answered robotically. I reached down to grab the candy cane while her back was to me. It burned my hand.
“Let me know if you need anything else. Merry Christmas.”
“You too.” I stepped into the room and watched her figure retreat as the door swung shut between us. Luna nudged my hand, whining. “Sshh. It’s okay.” I stroked the thick, coarse fur on her head. My mom was singing “Deck the Halls” in the shower, a
nd steam was pluming out from under the bathroom door. “They caught the killer, Luna. I’m just overreacting.”
She whined again, and Tiger Pop even walked over to rub himself against the back of my legs. I bent down and hugged his kitty fur tightly. “You guys are right. Let’s call Mrs. Berns and find out what she thinks. A second opinion is always a good thing to have.”
I dialed “9” and then punched in her number. She answered on the first ring.
“Did you see the news?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She was quiet for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
“I just found a candy cane on the outside doorknob of our hotel room.”
“Holy hell. Are there candy canes on any of the other doors?”
I hadn’t thought to check. I’d been too stunned. “Hold on.” I set the phone on the table and walked over to peek out. The maid’s cart was still outside room 24. All the doors had cardboard cut-outs of Christmas scenes on them, which I hadn’t remembered seeing yesterday. No candy canes. I came back to the phone and told Mrs. Berns.
“I suppose you don’t want to call the FBI tip line?”
“You remember how they treated me about the orange begonia theory and what Briggs said to me in Orelock. What do you think they’ll say if I tell them I got a candy cane on my door, along with my other Christmas decorations, on Christmas Eve?”
“You have to at least tell the police.”
She was right. I looked down at my knees. They were still shaking. The killer had been caught; I’d just heard it on the news. The orange begonia and the candy cane could have been coincidences, harmless gifts easily explained. Or, whoever had left them wanted to scare me. That made the person dangerous, even if they weren’t a serial killer. “I’ll call the police, but I don’t want to spend another night in this hotel. It doesn’t feel safe anymore.”
“Good choice. I’ll call around, get us another room, and be there within the hour.”
We hung up, and I dialed the Paynesville Police Department. The female dispatcher was kind and professional. She took my name, my contact information, and my very brief story about the candy cane.
“It was a good idea to call,” she said, “but the latest news is that the killer has been caught. There’s a good chance the candy cane was just a harmless prank.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.” I hung up the phone and secreted the candy cane in my suitcase before my mom got out of the shower. In the interest of not scaring her unnecessarily, I lied when she stepped into the room. “We got a call when you were in the shower. The hotel double-booked our room for tonight and asked us if we’d move to another.”
“You said no of course. We’re already settled here.”
I shuffled my feet.
“Mira, is there something you’re not telling me?”
It was the concerned mom eyes that undid me, but not completely. I was still too tough a nut for a total meltdown. “I know the news says the killer has been caught, but I’m still scared, that’s all, and it feels better to move instead of staying in one spot.”
She considered me, hands on hips, and finally nodded. I don’t know how she reconciled my unreasonable requests, but she did, every time. We worked silently, gathering our clothes and boxing up the animal supplies. Mrs. Berns returned in under a half an hour, her cheeks pink from the walk over, to tell us that every hotel room in Paynesville and the surrounding communities was booked. Every single one, full to the shingles with families in town for the holidays.
Mom put her arm around me. “I know you’re scared, hon, but I think this is a sign that it’s time to go home. The killer is in jail. It’s going to be Christmas Eve tonight. I want to roast a turkey and cook for us.”
Mrs. Berns and I exchanged a glance. I heard the ghosts whispering.
“All right,” I said. “Home it is.” It seemed as safe as anywhere else.
Thirty-eight
Pulling over the little hill that hid my childhood house from the road, I was struck with a sense of déjà vu. I’d driven over this hill thousands of times, of course, but that wasn’t it. Maybe it was seeing all of the traditional Christmas decorations out—the silver garland around the front door, the lights rimming the outside of the bay windows, her “Over the Hill to Mom’s House” sign—that brought me back to a simpler time.
I parked my car to the side so mom could pull her van into the garage. Luna sprang out joyfully and leapt over the snow like a giant rabbit. Smiling, I began to unload the car, thanking Mrs. Berns for holding the door for me. I set the bag of dog food and one of our bags of freshly bought groceries on the kitchen counter. We’d gotten the last thawed turkey in the store. The answering machine was blinking like a Morse code transmitter. “I’ll check the messages.”
My mom waved her approval, too busy bustling around the house and checking on plants and her Christmas tree to care about who’d called. She’d been thrilled to return to her home of forty years and had been talking nonstop about what a magnificent Christmas feast she was going to cook for all of us, including Tiger Pop and Luna, tomorrow afternoon. The animals were equally thrilled. Luna was currently running circles around the house with the focused glee of The Flash. Tiger Pop had immediately disappeared, something she’d probably wanted to do for days. Mrs. Berns was re-acclimating herself to her room. I was happy at the thought of a bedroom door that closed, even if it led to my 1980s shrine.
I punched the play button on Mom’s machine. The first message was received two days ago, and the voice was halting. “Hi, this is Tina. We met at Natalie’s funeral?” I had to search my memory for a face to go with the name. Tina was the one who wore jeweled glasses, the woman whom I’d discovered was still online dating when I’d gone searching for Natalie’s profile. “You said to call if we thought of anything out of the ordinary relating to Natalie’s death. Well, I thought of something. Call me back.” She left her number.
The second message was from Adam, and it came in yesterday evening. “Mira, it’s Adam. I’m calling you back like you asked. I’m in Agate City, and it’s been crazy here. They think they have the killer. Call if you still need something.”
The third message was from Tina again, left early this morning. Her voice was more assured this time. “It’s Tina. Call me.”
Two more messages were for mom, one reminding her to show up for the nativity scene tonight and another asking if she could cover a volunteer shift at the hospital on Christmas Day. I passed on both messages before calling Tina. She didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message.
Mom, Mrs. Berns, and I spent the next two hours cleaning the house and preparing the turkey for brining. My mom said she was so grateful to finally have company for the Christmas Day meal that she was going whole hog this year—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, clover-leaf rolls, hot vinegar salad, and three kinds of pie for dessert. I liked the homey feeling of helping her to prep the house for the holidays, and having Mrs. Berns around made it that much nicer. Still, by early afternoon, the trapped feeling was beginning to set in again.
I snuck off into my mom’s room to use her phone in private and tried Tina again. The phone rang five times. I was pulling the handset away from my ear to hang up when she answered.
“Hello?”
“Tina? This is Mira James. You left me a message, something about Natalie.”
A muffled sound came from the other end of the line. I realized she was giving someone instructions. She returned to the phone. “Sorry. I’ve got a house full.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“No problem. I’m probably the one bothering you. Something occurred to me, but it’s sort of a long shot. It might be nothing at all.” I heard the muffled noise again.
“Does someone need you?”
“I’m afraid so. Our cookies are burning. Do you mind calling back?”
My mom appeared in the room, a hopeful smile on her face. She was holding a box marked, “Family Photo Albums.”
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br /> “I have a better idea,” I whispered into the phone, so my mom couldn’t hear me. “How about I come to River Grove? I can be there in 40 minutes.”
Thirty-nine
After convincing mom that I had to run a secret Christmas errand, I left her and Mrs. Berns to the domestic duties and headed out on the barren country roads. Inviting myself over to a stranger’s house on the afternoon of Christmas Eve was weird, I’d cop to that. It wasn’t the weirdest thing I’d done in the last week, however. Tina had something to tell me, I was driving to hear it. Mom and Mrs. Berns would be fine without me, probably even better, and I’d be back in time for supper and to watch Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town. Mom and I had made a tradition of watching the show on Christmas Eve when I still lived at home. I had faint memories of my dad drunkenly yelling at Burgermeister Meisterburger for being such a monster, but after awhile, he’d give up and stumble off into another room and leave me and Mom in peace to watch the rest of the show. Believe it or not, it was a happy memory.
The radio informed me that we were in for a warm snap, above zero the whole week and no snow on the horizon. It’d be a perfect Christmas, weather-wise. We had about three feet of accumulation on the ground, soft sloping drifts of white that made every home look like a gingerbread house and every hill a sledding mecca. When the announcer promised Christmas music straight through tomorrow, I didn’t even change the dial. The candy cane on the door had given me a jolt, but I’d told the police, and in turn been told that they had good reason to believe the Candy Cane Killer had been caught. Tina might have something interesting to tell me that would help police with their conviction of the guy, or she might not. Either way, she’d given me an excuse to leave the house just when my claustrophobe switch had been tripped.
