Mistletoe, Merriment, And Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “I didn’t seek this out,” I protested. “I wish I hadn’t been there. Goodness knows, I wish I hadn’t been there.”

  “Um-hmm,” he murmured in a dismissive way. “But you were. You always seem to be there. Right in the middle of everything. There’s too much coincidence in your life, Mrs. Avery, for me to write you off or to believe everything you say. And a word of advice . . . it’s not going to do you any good to get your friends to call with bogus leads to distract me.”

  “Are you talking about Diane?” I asked, looking up at the doorway with the Helping Hands logo. She certainly hadn’t delayed in calling Waraday. She must have made the call immediately after our conversation. “I didn’t ask her to call you.”

  “Right. But you do know she called me and I bet you know exactly why she called—Mr. Williams’s lunch activity, right?”

  “Yes. She asked if I thought it was important. I told her to call you because I didn’t know if it was important or not—that you’d sort it out,” I said.

  “Yes, it’s sorted. In fact, it was sorted yesterday. Mr. Williams has a hobby he didn’t want anyone to know about—hula-hooping.”

  I was stunned. “He hula-hoops every day at lunch?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Yes,” Waraday said. “A whole class at Fit Lifestyle vouched for him—says he always shows up and then returns directly to work.” Did I see a ghost of a smile on Waraday’s face? Surely not . . . but it was kind of funny . . . a retired military guy—a pilot, no less—taking Hula-Hoop classes. No wonder he wanted to keep that quiet. If any of his old buddies found out, they’d have a field day. The amount of kidding he would get about hula-hooping would be astronomical, I was sure. The guys were notorious for ragging on each other and playing practical jokes. If he’d still been in the squadron and the guys found out, I’m sure he would have found a Hula-Hoop on his desk or draped over the antenna of his car, and heard endless jokes about it. Even though he was retired, I knew he continued to do things with the guys from the squadron, just like Jean had continued to come to spouse club activities. Mitch had mentioned that Simon dropped in at the office occasionally and Abby said he’d played golf with Jeff awhile back. I could see why he wouldn’t broadcast his hobby.

  “That’s . . . surprising,” I said.

  “Apparently, it’s all about core strength,” Waraday said. Yes, there was certainly a flicker of humor in his eyes. He must have forgotten who he was speaking to for a few seconds, but he quickly returned to his serious demeanor. “It’s irrelevant.” His face straightened into official lines. “And confidential. Don’t go spreading that tidbit around. I’m warning you, Mrs. Avery. I won’t let you push this investigation into wasting time and resources. Stay out of it.”

  “Stay out of it,” I murmured to myself as I pulled to a stop in the carpool line at school. Thanks to being waylaid by Waraday, I was at the very back of the line. The way he’d gone on about how he thought I’d mistaken Jean for Gabrielle and all the prodding about me being angry . . . well, I wasn’t sure how the conversation was going to end. I’d been half afraid he was going to order me into his car and take me to the sheriff’s office right then and there, despite his insinuation that if I talked to him there, he wouldn’t do that. But in the end, after he’d dropped the bombshell about Simon and hula-hooping—hula-hooping!—he’d told me he’d be in touch. Then he’d climbed the stairs and gone into the food bank. I’d stood there for about one second before I darted over to the minivan and got out of there as fast as I could.

  A knock on the window startled me and I hurried to unlock the car. One of the school aides was standing beside the car with Livvy, Nathan, and Charlie lined up on the curb. As they scrambled in, Nathan announced, “Mom, Brandon can’t come over and play today.”

  The after school play date had completely slipped my mind. “Something must have come up,” I said. “Maybe he can come over next week,” I added, seeing Nathan’s disappointed face in the rearview mirror.

  “He can’t,” Nathan announced flatly. “His mom came to get him on the sidewalk today and said he can’t ever come over to my house.”

  As I maneuvered through the curving lane and exited the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Brandon’s mom. She was fastening the seat belt around Brandon, the back door of the car open. She saw me and I waved. I couldn’t slow down—it was strictly against protocol and I’d probably get rear-ended—so I rolled slowly by her. She glowered back at me and my spirits took a nosedive. Clearly, she’d seen me on the news.

  “Shepherds! Over here. All shepherds line up over here,” called Molly, a Sunday school teacher, as she herded ten boys to one side of the sanctuary and put her fingers to her lips. I didn’t envy her. Keeping that many five- and six-year-old boys calm and quiet was almost impossible. I was seated at the back of the room on one of the padded chairs that linked together to form rows. I leaned over, checking to make sure Nathan was in the group he was supposed to be in and that he was fairly quiet. He was shooting Charlie very expressive looks, but they weren’t talking so I sat back in the seat and fiddled with my phone.

  No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. Truthfully, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself. Normally, I’d have taken the time during the evening pageant rehearsal to return phone calls or run a quick errand, but I had nothing on my calendar, except my meeting with Marie on Monday. No clients to prepare for, no organizing supplies to buy—we were a long way from that stage with Marie—and no e-mails to catch up on. Abby was picking up a pizza for dinner tonight and would meet us back at the house when rehearsal was over, so I didn’t even have to fix dinner.

  A plastic-wrapped plate covered in frosted cookies appeared before me and a deep voice said, “Merry Christmas.”

  I looked up to see Gary Donahue standing beside me. “Monica made enough cookies to feed an army,” he said, lifting the plate slightly. “Would you like some for your house?”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you,” I said, taking the plate. “Merry Christmas to you, too. Here, sit down. Is Claire down there?” I asked, looking to the front of the sanctuary where parents, teachers, and kids were moving up and down the stairs in a sort of organized chaos.

  “Yep. She’s the innkeeper’s wife. Disappointed as all get-out that she doesn’t get to tell them there’s no room at the inn.”

  I spotted a sullen-looking Claire, her fair hair slipping out of its barrettes, standing on the opposite side of the room from Nathan. Gary was a police officer in the city police department and, after my conversation with Waraday earlier, I would have wanted to avoid any other law enforcement types, but Gary was our friend. He and Monica sat a few rows behind us most Sundays at church, and Gary was a part-time reservist with the air force, so he and Mitch had a lot in common. “Where’s Monica?” I asked.

  “Still baking. My folks are coming in next week and she’s turned into Martha Stewart.” Gary kept his gaze on the kids being steered into place. “Figured you could use some holiday cheer,” he said, pointing to the plate of cookies.

  Of course, he knew about the murder and the investigation. Even though he was with the city police, not the sheriff’s office, he would have heard about it. “You got that right. Not exactly a joyous time for us right now.”

  Gary nodded, but didn’t comment. We watched the kids move through the Christmas story, then there was a moment of absolute silence, a burst of static that startled everyone, and, finally, the opening notes of “Away in a Manger” came over the speakers. Molly raised her arms and nodded to the kids. A few wobbly voices filled the air, then a few more, until all the kids realized they were supposed to be singing and everyone joined in.

  Quietly, Gary said, “I hear that the detective likes you for the murder.”

  “I know,” I said miserably. Waraday had made that quite clear this afternoon. He likes me for it. Those words echoed around in my head, obliterating the soothing Christmas carol.

  “Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

  “Yeah
, I know,” I said, a depression settling over me. Waraday had his sights set on me. “What can I do? I’ve already given him a ton of ammunition. I was trying to help his investigation, but he’s using everything I’ve told him against me.”

  “A lawyer would be a good step, I think,” Gary said mildly, his attention still fixed firmly on the kids.

  He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s talking to me about the case, I realized. I had to get a grip on myself and keep my voice down. Gary could probably get in big trouble for talking to me about the case even if his office wasn’t investigating it, but I knew why he was doing it. He was a friend. I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat and shook my hair back away from my face as I, too, looked determinedly to the front. The rows of chairs were mostly in the dark and I doubted anyone had noticed me nearly falling apart. “That’s finally taken care of. I won’t be saying anything else without T. Randall Hitchens around.”

  “Good. He’s good. You’ll be fine.”

  “It’s good to hear your vote of confidence, but I don’t feel reassured.” I’d spoken to T. Randall Hitchens’s secretary and to him for a few moments. He was soft-spoken and I had the image of an elbow-patch-wearing professor in mind when I thought of him—not exactly the firebrand defense lawyer I’d been hoping for.

  Gary cleared his throat and spoke in an even softer voice. “I also heard—through the grapevine, you know, nothing official—but I heard there were no prints on the murder weapon.”

  I shot a glance at him out the corner of my eye. His arms were crossed over his chest, his hands tucked up under his arms, head bobbing slightly to the beat of “Little Drummer Boy.”

  “Then that means . . . that my prints aren’t on it. Someone wiped it clean? Used gloves?”

  Gary shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but that fact combined with T. Randall Hitchens gives you a pretty good chance, even considering the detective’s focus on you.”

  I sagged back against the chair, feeling like I could breathe again. There was no physical evidence to tie me to the murder—well, except the spot of blood on my boot. And Waraday’s questions to Paige about my clothes obviously meant that he thought that whoever killed Jean would have a lot more blood on them than one spot.

  There was a shoving match going on between the three wise men, so the children’s choir director clapped her hands together to get their attention. “Once more,” she called over her shoulder to the sound booth in the back as she spun her finger, “then we’ll call it a night.” The strains of the carol filled the room again, but I barely noticed.

  “And with the prosecutor we’ve got—” Here, Gary shook his head. “Likes to keep his win ratio up, so unless a case is airtight, he doesn’t want to move. I think you’ll be okay with the lack of prints and Hitchens on your side.”

  “There’s something I was thinking about today—”

  “Just one thing?” Gary said.

  “No, I have about a thousand unanswerable questions, but you might be the one person who could help me with this one. Do they know what time Jean died? I felt for a pulse, but I can’t remember if she was . . . cold . . . I didn’t even notice. I was too freaked out about the whole situation.” Gary hesitated, and I said, “It could make a difference, how long she was . . . like that before I got there. I was at Fit Lifestyle up until just a few minutes before.”

  “It’s always hard to pinpoint time of death—lots of things can interfere with it, like the temperature of the room,” he said, raising his eyebrows and giving me a quick look.

  “There was a space heater in one corner and the garage wasn’t cold. Whoever killed her was trying to complicate things.”

  “Could be. On the other hand, she might have always had that heater on whenever she was in the garage in the winter . . . hard to know. Anyway, I hear Waraday is focusing on the time between noon and twelve-thirty.”

  “I was with Paige during most of that time,” I said with another rush of relief. Two bits of good news at once—it was almost too much to handle. I’d had too many emotional swings in the last forty-eight hours and this barrage of positive news, for me at least, was almost too good to be true. My eyes pricked with tears and I blinked quickly. I had to get a grip. Gary would not thank me if I became a weepy watering pot.

  “Thanks for telling me this, Gary. I appreciate it. I might even be able to sleep tonight.”

  Gary grinned at me. “What did I tell you, Christmas cheer . . . that’s what I deliver.”

  Chapter Nine

  Monday

  The feeling of relief lasted until I entered the funeral home for Jean’s memorial service on Monday morning and walked past Waraday to slip into a seat beside Mitch. It had been a fairly normal weekend. We’d had our traditional Friday night pizza. On Saturday, Abby and I had taken the kids to the park and even worked in a quick trip to do some Christmas shopping. Sunday had been a blur because Jeff came home. We’d spent the day waiting for his flight to arrive in a drafty hangar at the base. Abby had somehow managed to gather up all the clothes and Charlie’s toys, and our house had seemed unusually quiet and empty this morning.

  I murmured hello to Mitch, who’d driven over from the base, and glanced back over my shoulder. Waraday had his gaze locked onto me and I shivered as I remembered Gary’s words. He likes you for it. It seemed Waraday hadn’t changed his mind. I reminded myself that I had an excellent lawyer—a criminal lawyer, which still amazed me every time I thought of it. I pushed down the worry about how hard a hit our savings account would take when we had to pay him and instead focused on the service.

  I was shocked when I saw Simon walking slowly down the center aisle as if the effort of moving was painful. If you’d asked me to describe Simon a week ago, I would have said he was a wiry guy in his midfifties with a quick smile, but today he looked shrunken and frail. In his dark suit, with his face pale and haggard demeanor, I almost didn’t recognize him. The times I’d met him, he’d either been in a flight suit or a plaid shirt and khaki pants and he’d always told a corny joke that made the kids laugh. I assumed the young man in his early twenties moving down the aisle beside Simon was his son. He had the same light brown hair as Simon and a similar lean body type, but was taller than his dad. I only caught a quick glimpse of Gabrielle, in a clingy black dress, because she was flanked on each side by two young women with manes of straight, glossy hair and the slimness of youth, who must have been her daughters. A man with curly brown hair and a ruddy face wore a plain white dress shirt, no tie, and dark dress pants. He walked a few steps behind Gabrielle and her daughters and sat as far as he could from the female trio. Gabrielle’s ex-husband perhaps?

  The service began with a song and I couldn’t help thinking what a horrible thing it would be to lose a loved one during the holidays. Wouldn’t the season always be tinged with sorrow afterwards? I slipped my hand into Mitch’s, knowing that the funeral had to bring back memories of the last funeral we’d attended, for his grandfather. He squeezed my hand and I leaned against his shoulder. Movement up front drew our attention as Simon made his way to the podium.

  Obviously working hard not to cry, he made it through a very nice eulogy in which he described Jean’s sunny personality and told how they’d met in college when he helped her extract a candy bar stuck in a vending machine. After he returned to his seat, he broke down in the front row and sobbed quietly throughout the rest of the service. After a short word from the pastor, a reading from First Corinthians, and a prayer, the service ended. I was surprised Gabrielle didn’t speak since she seemed to thrive on attention, but she had remained seated with her arm wrapped around one of her daughters. Mitch and I made our way out of the chapel and spoke briefly to the family. I didn’t even try and think of anything to say to Simon. Up close, he looked even more traumatized. I shook hands with his son, who said a very correct, “Thank you for coming,” and moved down the line to Gabrielle. She stared at me a moment with her puffy, red eyes, and I wondered if it was a huge mistake to hav
e come today. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about Gabrielle until I saw her during the service, but she had made quite a scene when she accused me of murder. I’d only been thinking of Jean and how she was one of the nicest people I’d known and I needed to go to her funeral. Maybe it would have been more appropriate to attend, but then slip out the back a few minutes before the service was over. Unfortunately, I didn’t think Miss Manners covered proper murder suspect etiquette. I’d just have to wing it.

  I said quickly, “I’m so sorry, Gabrielle,” and started to move on to the next person, one of her daughters, but Gabrielle put her hand on my arm and stopped me. She continued her long examination of my face. Finally, she nodded once and said, “Thank you for coming.”

  Her daughter’s gaze was flicking back and forth between us and finally settled on her mom with concern, obviously wondering what was going on. Gabrielle shot her a quick glance that I couldn’t interpret, then turned to Mitch. I moved through the rest of the family, glad that Gabrielle had held it together, but ready to get out of the atmosphere of sorrow and grief.

  I paused on the steps outside to find my keys. It was another bright, crisp day that would have been beautiful except for the funeral service.

  “Are you going to the graveside service?” Mitch asked.

  “No.” I slipped on my sunglasses. “I have that appointment with Marie. I have to get home and change, then go to her house.”

  “Didn’t she come today?” Mitch asked as we moved down the steps to the parking lot.

  “No. She didn’t really know Jean. They’d only met a few times. Simon had retired by the time Marie moved here, so Jean wasn’t doing as much with the spouse club. I called Marie this morning to see if she wanted to reschedule because of the funeral, but she said she didn’t want to put off our appointment. I got the feeling she knows if she cancels once it will be hard for her to call me again to set up a new appointment.”