Mistletoe, Merriment, And Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “Those toys are for my nieces,” she said quickly, almost defensively.

  “Great place for them,” I said. “And I love the way you’ve stored the scarves. Very clever.”

  “Oh, thanks,” she said. “It seemed like a good idea. They don’t get as tangled and I can see what I have.”

  “I may have to borrow that idea for my newsletter.”

  “Great,” Marie said with a big smile.

  “Now,” I turned serious. “What about the bags on the deck?”

  She shook her hair away from her face. “I’ll throw the food scraps away. Garbage pickup is tomorrow. You’re right about composting. I shouldn’t save kitchen scraps . . . what was I thinking?” she asked, and I could see she was in danger of slipping back into a bleak mood. I wanted her to stay positive, so I said briskly, “Good idea. You can decide later if you really want to compost. Now, if you’re ready to get rid of the charity bags, I can make that happen, probably today.” I had several local charities on my speed dial. I was willing to bet that one of them could make it to Wiregrass Plantation to pick up a significant-size donation.

  Marie looked around the clear entryway and scanned the neat closet. She nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  We bundled into our coats and carried the bags of trash to the curb for the morning trash pickup and then met the Goodwill truck and directed the two men to the back deck. They had a truck in the area and were happy to work in a stop at Marie’s house. Even though I would be cutting it close for the carpool line, I stayed, partly for moral support and partly to make sure Marie followed through with the donation. I watched her for signs of anxiety, but she handed over the bags and watched the two men load them without any obvious distress, except for a tightness between her eyebrows. “So . . . how are you doing?” I asked as we climbed the steps to the deck and the truck lumbered away.

  She nodded. “Okay,” she said as if she was slightly surprised. At the top of the stairs, she paused and looked around. “The deck looks huge now . . . all this space. I’d forgotten how nice it is.”

  I ran my hand along the back of a patio chair we’d uncovered as the bags were removed. “It would be a nice place to drink a cup of coffee in the morning,” I said, “once it gets a little warmer.”

  “But before the ‘no-see-um’ season,” she said.

  “Very true.” The tiny bugs descended on middle Georgia every spring, making all outdoor activities from lawn-mowing to soccer practice into some level of miserable, depending on whether or not you remembered the bug spray. There was a good reason so many people had screened porches around here. “I’ve got to get my purse and run,” I said, heading inside.

  Marie was adjusting the position of the chair and made a move to follow me, but I waved her back. “Go ahead. It’ll only take me a minute.”

  I retrieved my purse and wound my scarf around my neck, then checked my calendar. Marie came in and I confirmed that we were still on for our next appointment on Saturday, then I said good-bye. I dug in my purse for my car keys as I trotted down the deck stairs.

  Halfway down, my foot caught, throwing off my quick cadence. I pitched forward and grabbed for the railing, but missed. I had a second of clear thought as the wooden stairs rushed toward my face: I’m going to be mangled.

  I twisted and a flash of pain exploded as my arm hit the wood, then the world wheeled around me. Fleeting images of sky, wood, ground, and tree branches flicked by. I tumbled down the stairs, each thudding blow jolting through me.

  Then it stopped.

  I blinked a few times as I lay on the cold, hard slab of cement at the foot of the stairs, my heart thundering.

  “Ellie? Are you okay?” Marie called. She paused at the top of the steps, spotted me sprawled at the bottom, and hurried down to bend over me. “What happened?”

  “I tripped,” I said, slowly pulling myself up into a sitting position. “I feel like I’ve been run through the dryer.”

  “Are you sure you should sit up? Maybe you should lie back down. I heard this awful thumping sound.”

  “That would have been me,” I said as I flexed my feet, which still seemed to be in working order. I wiggled my fingers experimentally. They were functioning, too. My whole body was trembling slightly and I felt a little dazed, but, apparently, I was more embarrassed than seriously injured. “I’m okay,” I said, pulling my purse toward me and refilling it. I scooted around on my knees—oh, they’d taken a beating. I gritted my teeth. I would be sore tomorrow, I thought as I picked up my phone, lipstick, and sunglasses, which were scattered around like they’d rained down from the sky.

  “Do you want some water? Are you bleeding? Do you need a Band-Aid?”

  “Only scratches,” I said, examining the back of my left hand where a thin layer of skin had been scoured away in my tumble. It was pink, but there were no splinters. I gripped the stair rail and levered myself up. It seemed my coat had provided quite a bit of padding and protection during my unexpected somersault. “I’ll be fine,” I said, thinking I really should be more sympathetic to the kids when they fall down. Little searing stabs of pain were still echoing through my arms, legs, and back. I took a few experimental steps, probably looking like Livvy and Nathan did when they learned to walk.

  “What happened?” Marie asked, and we both looked back up the stairs. “The stairs seemed fine when I came down them. Nothing broke or gave way?”

  “No, I tripped. I wasn’t watching the steps . . .” My words trailed off as I spotted something wedged into the base of the railing about halfway up the stairs.

  Marie saw it, too, and climbed back up to retrieve it. It was a stick almost the same color of dark brown as the deck stairs. It was stuck between the balusters. She had to tug on it to get it out. I followed her cautiously up a few steps. I could see a scrape on the opposite baluster slightly above the stair tread. “You must have tripped on this. It looks like it got stuck right above the step. She glanced up at the pecan tree that towered above us. “I love these trees, but at the same time, they worry me. We always have branches on the deck and all over our yard when it’s windy.”

  Cranking my head back, I studied the gnarled branches, dark against the sky. There was a light breeze, but it was barely moving the thick branches. “That seems kind of odd—that it would get stuck on both sides of the stairs, don’t you think?” I said, pointing to the scrape. I remembered the feeling of being watched when I’d arrived. I quickly scanned the neighborhood, but I could only see the house with the Christmas light extravaganza from Marie’s backyard, and their yard looked empty. They didn’t have a fence enclosing their backyard, so I could see part of the street and it was quiet, not even a car passing.

  “I don’t know . . . that scrape has probably been there for years. The deck needed to be refinished when we bought the house. It’s a little beat up,” she said, pointing to some scratches on the handrail.

  A faint ringing sound came from the house. “Oh, there’s the phone. I better go,” she said, backing up the stairs. “Cole’s supposed to call me today and I don’t want to miss him—” She stopped. “Unless you need me to stay with you. Maybe drive you home? You should be careful. You might have a head injury,” she said, looking distraught.

  “No, I think my head is the only thing that didn’t hit something on the way down. You go on.” I waved her away and she sprinted up the steps, but I noticed that she was gripping the handrail tightly.

  Before I left, I looked at the scrape again. It was different from the rest, a thick white line, while all the other marks were darker, more weathered.

  Tips for a Sane and Happy Holiday Season

  Plan Ahead for Mailing

  Don’t forget to factor mailing time for packages going to family and friends who live far away. Check the post office for exact dates on deadlines for mailing packages and cards so they arrive at their destinations by Christmas. A good rule of thumb for overseas packages is to have them in the mail before Thanksgiving.

 
Chapter Sixteen

  Later, that evening, I came out of the dry cleaners and tossed my little black dress encased in plastic over my shoulder—perfect for the squadron Christmas party—and felt a ripple of pain cascade through my arm. Obviously two ibuprofen were not enough to counteract the aftermath of falling down a flight of stairs. I winced and slowed down, which is not an easy thing for me.

  I still wasn’t sure about Marie’s explanation. We had sticks and limbs fall out of trees, too, but to have one wedge into both sides of the stair railing? That seemed a little too curious. On the other hand, thinking that someone had intentionally placed it there to trip me seemed far-fetched as well. Who would do something like that? I had zero solid suspects for Waraday to check out. Had someone heard that Gabrielle and I were trying to figure out who killed Jean? Had it made someone nervous enough to track me down and try to waylay me with . . . with a tree branch? No, it was all too crazy, I told myself for about the fiftieth time. It was an accident. A strange accident to be sure, but wasn’t the news full of stories of bizarre occurrences where nature was concerned? A Bible that stayed open to the same page while the rest of a house was destroyed in a tornado was one I remembered hearing about when I was a kid in Texas. Or was that just an urban legend?

  I’d run my thoughts by Mitch when he got home from the squadron. He’d been concerned about how stiffly I was moving—I’d downplayed the whole thing on the phone earlier that afternoon—but I couldn’t hide how gingerly I was moving to protect my sore body. I’d floated the thought that had been at the back of my mind all day by him: “Do you think it could have been . . . intentional?”

  Never one to rush into anything, he’d studied me for a long moment, then said, “With anyone else, I’d say no, no way, but with you . . .” He sounded slightly exasperated as he said, “I don’t know. You do have a tendency to, let’s say, attract bad luck.” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he went on. “Even with that factored in, I’d say it probably wasn’t on purpose . . . or, if it was, it may not have been directed at you. Since we don’t know for sure, I think you ought to avoid staircases in the near future . . . and anything else that could be dangerous.” His dark gaze was intent and worried.

  I swallowed the sharp comeback that I’d been forming in response to his saying I attract bad luck, because of the genuine concern on his face. “Sure,” I said. “No running down stairs without looking where I’m going—”

  He drew a breath and I amended, “Okay, no stairs at all. Good thing we don’t live in a two-story house or a city with lots of tall buildings,” I said to lighten the mood.

  “You probably should stay home from book club tonight. Soak in a hot tub, go to bed early,” he said, and I saw the little glint in his eye and the slight raise of his eyebrows; since we were an “old married couple,” I knew exactly what he was saying.

  I grinned. “Unfortunately, I have to be there. I’m bringing the snacks.” I kissed him, then said, “But I won’t stay late.”

  Now, as I walked at my abbreviated pace, each step reminded me that muscles I didn’t even know I had were bruised. I hobbled along the sidewalk that connected the string of businesses and restaurants in the small shopping center, glancing automatically in one of my favorite stores, New To You, a consignment shop where I’d found some terrific deals on designer handbags. I stopped and stared. I wasn’t looking at a purse. There was a necklace displayed in the window. Suspended along several silver chains were a mix of pendants—a butterfly, a heart, a miniature high heel, a peace sign, and a star. It was beautiful and eclectic, a perfect present for Abby. She wasn’t fond of mass-produced items. “Why buy something that’s in every fifth house across America?” she’d ask. “Where’s the fun in that?” The very act of duplicating something on a grand scale made it less interesting, she argued. She had very strong feelings about Restoration Hardware. Since I’d never seen a necklace like this one, I knew she’d love it. I shoved the door open and hurried inside.

  Rita, the owner, was at the back counter. “Hi, Ellie. We just got in some new purses.”

  “For once, I’m not here for a purse. I want that necklace in the window, the silver one.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” Rita said, and while she bustled to the front to retrieve the jewelry, I admired the purses.

  Rita hung the purses like works of art. Suspended on hooks or perched on little platforms, they were spaced from about waist high all the way to the ceiling across the back wall of the store behind the checkout counter. She kept a long hook in the corner to retrieve the highest bags. My Christmas budget was blown, but a girl could look. I scanned the rows of purses, then stepped back for a better look at one near the ceiling. It looked like Abby’s missing gray snakeskin bag.

  “Do you want a box?”

  “What? Oh—yes,” I said. “It’s a gift.”

  Rita nodded. “I have just the thing.”

  “That purse up high, the gray one. Can I see it?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I knew you couldn’t do it—resist the lure of the handbags.”

  “Well, you do have the best ones in town,” I said as she lowered the bag to the glass counter.

  I unzipped the tote, checked inside, then turned it around. “This looks like a purse that was stolen from my friend.”

  Rita had been curling ribbon she’d just tied onto the handle of a small red bag, but she stopped, her scissors open halfway down the taut length of ribbon. “Stolen?”

  “Yes. I mean, I’m not sure this is the exact same bag. She didn’t have her name in it or anything, but I loved it and I’ve been looking for one and couldn’t find anything like it.”

  Rita pulled the scissors across the rest of the ribbon thoughtfully. “That came in yesterday. I took the consignment.”

  “Do you remember the person who brought it in?”

  “Of course.” She fluffed the ribbon curls, then tapped a few keys on the computer terminal of her cash register. “It was Cheryl Brown.” Rita tapped her lips with one finger as she said, “She’s young—probably early twenties. Blond hair, glasses.”

  The name was wrong, but the description sounded a lot like Cecilia. Of course, it was a pretty general description—there were loads of blond twentysomethings who wore glasses.

  “Was she pregnant?” I asked, and Rita raised her eyebrows.

  “No . . . not that I could see. She was wearing a full-length coat.”

  It could have been Cecilia. The rest of the description fit and a long coat would easily cover her small baby bump.

  “Do you know this Cheryl?” Rita asked.

  “Maybe. The person I’m thinking of goes by a different name. Did you see any ID?”

  Rita laughed. “No, this is a consignment shop. Anyone can set up an account. We just take them at their word that they’re telling the truth when we ask for their name.”

  I carefully put the purse back on the counter, aligning the handles. “My friend’s house was broken into. Her purse—a gray snakeskin tote—was taken along with a GPS and a cell phone. I thought I saw her purse in the trunk of a friend’s car the other day, but I wasn’t sure—that’s why I wondered who dropped this off.”

  “Does it sound like the same person?”

  “Different name, same description, but this woman is pregnant. Not very far along, so it could be hidden.” The door chimed and two women entered the store.

  Rita scowled. “Looks like I’ll be making a call to the police tonight. The absolute last thing I want to happen to my business is to get involved in anything shady.”

  “It happened on base. I suppose you’d call the local police and they’d get in touch with the security police at the base.”

  “Wonderful! Now I’m involved in a crime that occurred on federal property,” she said in a low voice as she punched the keys for the sale of the necklace with quite a bit of force.

  “Maybe not.” I handed over my debit card. “It could be a completely different bag.”

  Rita
stowed the purse under the counter as the door chimed again and more people flowed into the store. “They’re going to want to talk to you, too.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said with that familiar gloomy feeling. At least Rita’s store was in the city of North Dawkins. With any luck, it would take awhile for the word to get back to Waraday that my name was connected to a possible robbery report. “I can stay here while you call,” I said reluctantly.

  She waved her hand. “Oh, go on. I can’t call now—I have customers—and I know where you live. I’ve got your number, too. I’ll tell them to contact you. You know they’re not going to show up right away. It might even be tomorrow before they get around to me.”

  Rita rounded the counter and greeted some of the customers. I gathered up Abby’s gift and my purse. On my way out of the store, I stopped her and said, “Why don’t you hold off on calling the police?” I didn’t want my name to come up in connection with any more investigations unless it was a last resort and Rita was upset. I could tell I was quickly slipping out of the favorite customer category. And why should Rita call the police unless I was sure that purse was Abby’s missing one? “I’ll see if I can get a look in my friend’s trunk—I’m on my way to a book club meeting at her house.” I had the whole drive over there to come up with a way to do that. “If I find the purse, or the bit of gray snakeskin that I saw earlier in her trunk, it means the purse you have here isn’t the one I saw and you won’t have to contact the police.”

  “That sounds good,” she said, eyeing a woman who was flicking through a dress rack.

  “Okay, then. I’ll call you if I find the purse. If you don’t hear from me by nine, then go ahead and contact the police.”

  “Do you want to do it?” I asked Abby.

  “No way. I’d be too nervous,” Abby said as we watched Cecilia welcome three more book club members who were toting their copies of Skipping Christmas. I’d told Abby about the glimpse of gray snakeskin I’d spotted in Cecilia’s car, the purse I’d seen at the consignment shop, and my idea for finding out if they were one and the same. Since every possible reason I came up with to look in Cecilia’s car was extremely lame, I decided the best way to go was subterfuge. I’d slip away during the prediscussion mingling time and take a quick peek in her car. I thought it was only fair to offer to let Abby take a look. It was her purse. She’d be able to identify it better than I could.