Mistletoe, Merriment, And Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “You’ve got them?” I asked, chasing a renegade cashew across my plate with my fork.

  “Simon had them in the recycling bin! I found them by the curb this morning when I went by to check on him. See what I mean? Who throws out all their wife’s papers the week after she dies?”

  “It does seem a little hasty, but you never know how people will handle grief. Maybe he took your advice about cleaning out her things.”

  She shrugged and changed the subject. “I told him you’re helping me.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “Nothing. He just nodded and went back to watching the morning show. I hope he goes to Helping Hands today. He seems to be able to function better away from the house.”

  “So he doesn’t mind that you’re asking questions?”

  “No. He couldn’t seem to care less.”

  “Did you ask Waraday about the break-ins . . . any connection between them and Jean?”

  “He doesn’t think there is any link. He mentioned all those same things you mentioned, about how it doesn’t fit the pattern, but,” she thinned her lips in disapproval, “I think there could be something there.”

  I was about to mention my having possibly seen Abby’s stolen purse, when Gabrielle glanced at her watch and visibly started. “My two o’clock! I have to go.” She dabbed at her lips with the napkin, then reached for her purse. “I’ll leave you some cash for the check.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said, remembering her trip to the food bank last night. And here I’d insisted we eat lunch out. No wonder she’d seemed reluctant to join me. She opened her mouth to argue, but I said, “Really, let me get it this time. Your turn next time. Besides, you need to go. It’s ten till two.”

  I caught a flash of relief on her face, which she quickly hid by calling the waitress over for a to-go container. She scraped every last bit of her pork into the box before saying good-bye. I think every male in the place watched her hurry through the restaurant, hips swaying as she threaded through the gaps between tables. I swear, she even hurried seductively, I thought, shaking my head, half amused, as I cracked open a fortune cookie. Happiness is your friend. That’s not a fortune—that’s a statement, I thought.

  The waitress dropped off the bill and I was reaching for a twenty when I felt someone loom at the edge of the table. It was Waraday. He was dressed in casual civilian clothes—a polo shirt embroidered with the name of the county sheriff’s office and khaki chinos—but there was no mistaking the badge attached to his belt.

  “Well, wasn’t that cozy?” he said, glancing through the window at the front of the restaurant, where I could see Gabrielle’s dark head, hair shifting in the light breeze, as she walked to her car. “Mind if I join you?”

  I was so surprised to see him that it took me a second to respond. How long had he been in the restaurant? He certainly hadn’t been here when I arrived. I would have noticed him. He must have arrived while Gabrielle and I were talking, probably when I was wondering if she was about to turn the butter knife into a weapon. I put the money with the bill and hoisted my purse onto my shoulder. “I was just leaving,” I said, scooting to the edge of the booth.

  Waraday sat down across from me. “This will only take a minute. I hear you took a little drive today.”

  Did he know I’d gone on a short road trip? “I usually drive every day. Comes with the whole mom-slash-organizer thing. School, clients, store,” I said.

  He pushed Gabrielle’s plate aside and rested his forearms on the table. “To Atlanta?”

  How did he know about that? Was he following me around? I discarded that idea as soon as it popped into my mind. He had better things to do than tail me, but I wouldn’t put it past him to assign someone else to keep an eye on me. I hadn’t noticed anyone following me—to Atlanta or anywhere else—but I hadn’t been looking for anyone. Thank goodness I’d put the cruise control on and hadn’t broken any speed limits. He was still locked on to me as a suspect, I thought, and that faint drumbeat of fear that I’d managed to almost silence began to grow again, pounding along with my heartbeat.

  “Yes, I went to Atlanta today,” I said, careful to keep my tone even, bland almost. What was I thinking with that snappy retort about driving every day? I did not need to get cocky. And where had that quick reply come from? I usually wasn’t fast off the mark. It would be awful if the one time I did manage to blurt out a smart comeback, it irritated an officer of the law. Did I have T. Randall Hitchens’s phone number on me? Was I about to be taken into custody, I wondered, my gaze sweeping the restaurant. I didn’t see any other uniformed law officers or anyone who looked like they were waiting for Waraday’s signal to slap cuffs on me. I tried to take a deep breath without sounding like I was in a yoga class doing a cleansing breath. This was a free country. I could drive to Atlanta if I wanted to.

  I used my most polite voice to ask, “Is there some problem?”

  Waraday arranged his smooth baby-faced features into a scowl. “It’s fortunate you came back. I wouldn’t want to lose track of your whereabouts . . . that could be problematic.”

  My palms felt slick on my purse strap. “I didn’t realize there was a limit on my activities.”

  “Just need to know you’re still around, Mrs. Avery.” He angled his head toward the front window. “Of course, I wonder why you felt the need to drive to Atlanta this morning, then turn right around and come back. And why would you and Ms. Matheson meet for lunch?”

  Under the table, I pressed one of my palms down on my jeans. “Gabrielle doesn’t think I killed her sister,” I said, gazing steadily at him.

  “So all that animosity between you two is gone?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

  “I still don’t know her very well,” I said carefully. Nerves made my heart pound and I knew my voice sounded a bit breathless and uneven, but I continued, “We got off on the wrong foot, but we’re both mature adults and can get past that.”

  There was a small part of me that wasn’t totally convinced Gabrielle was one hundred percent innocent, but until I had more than a suspicion, I wasn’t about to say anything to Waraday. No matter how badly Gabrielle had treated me, I wouldn’t do that to her. And it couldn’t hurt for him to see us getting along, either. That situation had to irritate him.

  “Uh-hun,” he said, clearly not believing a word I said about Gabrielle and me. “All right, Mrs. Avery.” Waraday slid out of the booth. He adjusted his badge as he stood. “Just so you know . . . it wouldn’t be a good idea to leave town again.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thursday

  I woke Thursday morning after a restless night of crazy dreams. I dreamt I was wrapping presents; well, more accurately, I was trying to wrap presents, but kept getting waylaid. I couldn’t find the wrapping paper, then the ribbon, or even the presents themselves. Then Waraday popped up with a gift that he insisted I open, but I couldn’t get the ribbon untied. In the way of dreams, it was all twisty and mixed up with lots of tangents and double-backs that seemed to make perfect sense in the dream, but in the clear light of morning were garbled and odd. However, the main underlying meaning was clear—I was stressed.

  It was going to be a busy day and I plunged into it, glad to have activities to keep me busy. I had an appointment with Marie and I absolutely had to finish my Christmas shopping. The kids would be out of school soon and it was measurably harder to sneak gifts into the house and hide them when the kids were home. The squadron Christmas party was coming up, too. Had I picked up my dress from the cleaners? I didn’t think so. Another item to add to my list. And, I had masses of cupcakes to bake for school parties, I suddenly remembered.

  I spent the morning in the toy aisles, then I baked and frosted cupcakes until the whole house smelled like chocolate. I left a few out on the counter for the kids and hid the rest in the laundry room. Absolutely no chance of anyone disturbing them in there.

  I arrived at Marie’s house at one o’clock and rang the doorbell. Above me, the w
ind whispered through the ancient branches of the pecan trees. I glanced around, feeling as if someone was watching me. There was probably one of Waraday’s guys lurking somewhere nearby, but I couldn’t see anyone. And there certainly hadn’t been a sheriff’s car following me this morning. Maybe Waraday had called off the surveillance. I shifted my feet and pressed the bell again, looking over my shoulder as the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I twisted around toward a movement I’d seen out the corner of my eye, then relaxed. It was Marie’s neighbor. He was again in his black-and-red flannel jacket, but this time the outfit was topped off with a red Santa hat. He was hauling several inflatable yard decorations out of his garage. His house was becoming quite Griswold-like. Lights rimmed every window and dripped from the eaves. I could see wires engulfing the trees and—I squinted—yes, those were strings of lights laid out in a grid pattern across the lawn. He was carefully stepping through the checkerboard pattern as he carried a sagging Rudolph made of lightweight nylon.

  I returned my attention to Marie’s house. I stepped back and looked at the windows. No movement. I’d stopped by yesterday for a short appointment last night after dinner. Marie was making great progress. We’d managed to clear her hallway and she was doing well on her own, too. I wouldn’t have thought she’d have forgotten about our appointment today since I’d mentioned it last night as I was leaving.

  Maybe she was around back. She’d never cancelled before. I dialed her number on my cell phone as I crunched through the dry yellow grass to her backyard and climbed the flight of steps to her raised deck. Her backyard sloped away from the house rather steeply, ending at a thicket of longleaf pines dripping with vines. The deck wasn’t large but it was high. The sharply descending angle of the ground meant the edge of the deck farthest away from the house was about six feet off the ground. Panels of lattice stained the same dark brown as the deck enclosed the lower portion. It was quite a climb, but I was sure the view was terrific. I bet she could see beyond the copse of trees that enclosed her neighborhood to the gently undulating countryside in the distance.

  I forgot all about checking out the view once I cleared the top step. What was this? One side of the deck was stacked waist high with bulging white trash bags. A potent smell of decaying things engulfed me. I crinkled my nose and made my way through the trash bags and knocked on the back door. “Marie,” I called uncertainly.

  I banged harder. “Marie,” I yelled. “Are you all right?” She hadn’t answered the phone and the putrid smell worried me.

  The door inched open and Marie’s eye appeared in the slit between the door and the door frame. “Hi, Ellie.” She sounded miserable.

  “Hi, Marie,” I said, striving for a natural-sounding voice, even though I was surrounded by mounds of stinky trash bags. The last time I was here, she’d done really well—selecting items to throw away without her usual hesitation. I thought we might have turned a corner, but . . . maybe not. I glanced at the trash bags. Some of them were full of fabric—clothes pressing against the thin plastic. Other bags seemed to be filled with food. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, Ellie,” she said, her voice only slightly above a whisper. “I’ve messed up . . . really bad.”

  “Okay . . . what did you mess up?”

  “Everything.”

  The door wavered an inch. “Can I come inside?” I asked. “It’s cold out.”

  She took a sniffling, deep breath and said, “I guess so . . . you’ve already seen what I was trying to hide.” She looked as if she were about to face a firing squad as she opened the door.

  As I stepped into the kitchen, I pointed over my shoulder at the trash bags. “You didn’t want me to see those?”

  She nodded. Head drooping and shoulders hunched, she looked miserable. “I didn’t mean to leave them there . . . it just sort of happened.”

  “That’s the trash and charity donations from our last few appointments?” I guessed.

  She grimaced. “Yes.”

  “Okay. That’s not so terrible,” I said, unwinding my scarf from around my neck. I unbuttoned my coat and placed it over the back of a chair, taking in a quick inventory of the kitchen. It wasn’t organized and there were plenty of piles of accumulated stuff to deal with, but it was livable, a functioning kitchen. It wasn’t in any worse shape than it had been the first day I’d looked around. The oven, microwave, and refrigerator were accessible and there was a tiny bit of counter space for food prep. Not ideal, but workable. I pulled out a chair and said, “Tell me what happened.”

  Marie sank into the chair across from me. The china teacups and tiny commemorative spoons were still there and looked like they hadn’t been moved since Marie and I first sat here. Marie pushed her fiery hair behind her ears and said, “I was going to give the charity stuff away, but then the donation truck got rescheduled and the trash . . . well, I was going to throw the trash away.” She tilted her head toward the door to the deck. “All of it. But when trash day came, I didn’t want to do it.” She looked down at her tightly clenched hands. “I told myself it was because I didn’t want to haul everything to the curb, but truthfully . . .” She sighed. “I started thinking about all those things . . . how I might need them someday or that I could find a way to use them—like the cardigan with the tear . . .”

  “And the glove with the hole that needed to be mended. And how you don’t knit,” I said gently.

  “I was thinking about that. I might take a class.”

  I stifled a sigh of my own. I wished I could put this conversation on hold and make a quick call to Dr. Harper for advice, but that wouldn’t be very effective and I had a feeling the advice would be the same—be patient and nonjudgmental, but remain firm. “Marie, it doesn’t make sense to keep an item because you might one day take a class and learn to mend it. If anything, you’ll take a class and knit a whole new sweater and then you’ll need a place for it.”

  She stared at me for a moment, then blinked and looked away.

  “What’s going on with the bags of food out there?”

  “Oh.” She sat up a bit straighter. “Kitchen scraps—I’m going to start composting. It’s so good for the environment and I’ll save money because I won’t have as much trash.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said, “but shouldn’t the scraps be in the composter, not on your deck?”

  “Yes . . . I don’t have one yet. I can buy one, or you can build them. I thought that Cole might want to build one when he gets back. He likes home improvement projects.”

  “It’s not a good idea to keep food in trash bags on your deck. It will attract raccoons and other animals.”

  She stared at her hands, her face slightly mulish. She’d been so contrite a few minutes ago, but now she looked determined. “Look, it’s up to you,” I said, backing off. “You hired me to help you organize your house, not your backyard, but I’m seeing a pattern. You have great ideas and plans,” I said, touching one of the commemorative spoons, “but you don’t seem to follow through on them . . . that’s one reason you have so much stuff. I think you might want to really think about what you enjoy and where you want to focus your time . . . otherwise, we’ll get your house all sorted and organized, but then you’ll fill it up again with more stuff related to new plans you have, plans that you don’t get around to because you’ve moved on to a newer idea.”

  She moved the spoon I’d touched back into line, staring hard at it, her jaw working. Oh no, she’s about to burst into tears. I’d made a client cry. I had to be the worst organizer in the world.

  “You’re right,” she said flatly.

  “Marie, I’m sorry—wait. What did you say?”

  She sniffed and blinked a few times. “You’re right. I don’t follow through. All these grand plans are just excuses to hold onto things. I can talk myself into keeping these things . . . I really don’t want to throw all that stuff away. Throwing it away bothers me, worries me.”

  “I know. I can tell,” I said, trying to think of some wa
y to encourage her to keep going. Despite the fact that my professional life would be easier if she wasn’t my client, I didn’t want her to give up. I wanted her to change the way she thought and the way she lived. I didn’t want her to spend her time feeling guilty and worrying that she was messing up.

  “Have you brought any of those things back into the house?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that right there is progress, an accomplishment.” Another thought struck me. “Do you like the way your entryway looks now?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go look at it,” I said, grabbing her arm and pulling her with me down the still-cluttered hallway. Once we reached her entry, I could feel myself relax in the open space. There was nothing on the floor, no piles of things, so there was room to stand without stepping on something. You could even turn around. “This looks great. You’ve done so good not filling it up again.” Marie grinned faintly at my praise. “And look, you can open your front door and your hall closet door, too,” I said, demonstrating. I sure hoped the closet was still in good shape after our last session, otherwise my little pep talk would backfire. I swung the door open and smiled. “See . . . you can get your coats now, all of them.”

  I’d been slightly afraid to open the hall closet when we’d first uncovered it, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It was almost as if the hall closet had been sealed off like a long-lost tomb as Marie’s piles grew in the hall. Once we’d opened the closet door, she’d discovered forgotten jackets and several framed prints. I was relieved to see that she’d only added a few things to the closet since our last session. Gloves and hats were stacked on the shelf, coats hung neatly on the rod, and an umbrella was propped in the corner. There was a half-open box of toys, blocks, puzzles, dolls, and cars in one corner. A few scarves were woven through a hanger designed to hold several pairs of pants.