Tangled Lights and Silent Nights

by Kelly Stone Gamble

  I fill her in. She’s a detective with the police department in neighboring Cleveland Heights, so we talk shop sometimes.

  “That’s strange,” she says. “Do you think he’s a bell-ringer, or do you think he might be the guy who’s been stealing from the bell-ringers?”

  I brake behind a big black SUV. “Wait, what? The super-helpful woman at Salvation Army didn’t say anything about that.”

  She sighs. “Those people are impossible. Yeah, some guy in a Santa suit has been attacking bell-ringers all season. He hits them with pepper spray then steals their buckets. It’s a serial thing.”

  The light turns, and I laugh as I accelerate around the SUV. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny. Just the image—”

  “—of a guy in a Santa suit stealing from other guys in Santa suits? It’s funny. I know. Fortunately, no one has been hurt too badly until now.”

  “Well, this one is dead, and the Salvation Army says they’re all accounted for.”

  “I’ll give you my case notes tomorrow. The guy is about five-ten, two-fifty. Surveillance video makes it look like his hair and beard are real—looks like Santa.”

  “It totally figures that you would have notes and that he would target Cleveland Heights.”

  “Ha ha. It’s not just us. The guy has been working his way across the whole east side since Thanksgiving, and most of the suburban departments are looking for him. Don’t you watch the news?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Not anymore, no, not unless I have to. The guy you just described matches my vic’s description. Once he unthaws, we’ll know more.”

  She shudders.

  We make small talk for a few minutes with Josh and his partner, Jacob, before Jacob introduces Cora to the others. Josh is a pediatric oncologist, Jacob is an attorney, all of their friends are professional types, and I’m a little rough around the edges. Cora comes off as far more regal than I do. I look down at my black jeans, beat-up boots, and worn sweater. I might need to invest in both a new car and a new personal wardrobe. You can take the kid out of the nineties, but you can’t take the nineties out of the kid.

  At some point after dinner, Josh pulls me into the kitchen. “I can’t believe you actually made it,” he says, pushing his rimless glasses up on his nose.

  “What else would I be doing?” I gesture at my empty wine glass.

  “Working, drinking whisky, or figuring out a way to avoid seeing Margaret.”

  I point at him with my free hand. “Avoiding seeing Mom, check. Drinking, check—though it’s wine and not bourbon, which we both know isn’t just ‘whisky,’ and I can’t have too much ‘cause I’m driving. Working, also check. I worked all night and this morning. Dead Santa. Don’t ask.”

  He laughs. “Come on. Tell me about the dead Santa. That’s darkly hilarious.”

  “It’s a dead end. I told you not to ask.” I fill him in anyway, complete with the part about a guy in a Santa suit robbing bell-ringers.

  He frowns. “What is wrong with people?”

  “Desperation drives people to do all kinds of heinous shit.”

  “God, can you imagine kids finding out about that? Talk about ruining Christmas.” He slides the cork out of the wine and decants it. “Maybe it’s not funny after all.”

  I nod. “Let’s hope good old mom and dad didn’t turn on the news while little Johnnie and Janey were opening presents.”

  “So. Cora.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Uh huh. What about her?”

  “What’s going on with you two?” He makes a hurry-up gesture.

  “Who?”

  He puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t do that, Liz.”

  “I still care about her. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how much.” I lean back against the counter.

  “You know you just said that out loud, right? And that you’re actually standing in my kitchen with me on Christmas? And that you’re behaving really well these days?”

  I feel my face turn red. “Yeah, well, I’m trying.”

  “The therapy is helping. It’s obvious.”

  He doesn’t know about the anti-depressants. I think about my shrink in her swanky office up by the lake.

  “Are you back together?”

  “No.”

  “Are you moving on?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Something is wrong with me.”

  “Girl, I’ve known that for over thirty-five years. Hand me your glass.” I oblige, and he fills it. “Have you told her?”

  “Told her what?” I sip the Grenache. “This is fantastic.”

  “That you still love her, you jerk.” He rolls his eyes, fills his glass, and sets the carafe on the counter.

  “I can’t. I’m scared.”

  “Of what? Jesus, Liz, live a little. She obviously still wants to hang out with you, even though you’re a major pain in the ass.” He smiles and puts an arm around me. “But I still love you, even when you’re impossible. And I really love you when you’re on good behavior.”

  “But what if—” I let my voice trail off. What if she only puts up with me, even as a friend, because she feels bad for me?

  “What if what? What if she doesn’t want to get back together? What if she does?” He releases my shoulders. “You need to let yourself be a human being. I can think of nothing more depressing in this world than never loving anyone.”

  “I love Ivan.” I take a big sip of wine.

  “He’s a cat.”

  “I love my brother, at least for the most part.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I love you, Josh.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes.

  “Was that so hard?”

  I shake my head.

  “Listen, Liz. Here it is. You need to tell Cora what you just told me. I’m serious. We’re all too old for this. If you want to be with her, make it happen.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll be an adult and share my feelings. I’ll put words to them or whatever the hell you’re telling me to do.”

  “Pretty sure you learned that in therapy.” He sings “therapy” in a way that makes me laugh.

  I hear someone stifle a chuckle from behind the door, and Cora pushes through, pretending she hasn’t been standing there the whole time. “I’m empty,” she says, waving her wine glass at us.

  Josh gives me an admonishing stare then grins at her. “What would you like, my dear?” He puts his arm around her casually and leads her to the wine rack.

  I chuckle. “Leave her alone, Josh.”

  “She’s not my type,” he says. Then he turns to face Cora. “I mean no offense. You would definitely be my type if I were single and even remotely interested in your gender.” He grins as she laughs. “I’m serious,” he said. “You really are stunning, and you’re smart as hell, or she wouldn’t still be pining away for you. Then again, if you were really that smart, you probably wouldn’t be here with her.” He winks at me.

  “Thank you, Josh, for that lovely intervention.” I feel myself blush. Cora and I exchange a glance. We really are too old for this. Cora turns forty in April.

  “How about this one?” She slides a good Tempranillo out of the rack. “I love Spanish wine.”

  He takes the bottle from her. “You have good taste in everything but careers and women, it would seem.” He can’t help himself.

  She laughs. “The job is just a job, and I have good taste in women, too.”

  His light-brown eyes search hers from behind his glasses before he peels the foil off the top of the bottle. “Watch yourself, girl. Spending time with Liz is like playing with matches.” He tilts his head in
my direction.

  I feel my eyebrows come together in the middle of my face. “Okay, guys, this is getting weird. I’m standing right here.”

  They both turn to face me. “And how nice it is to have you here,” Cora says.

  “I’m going to the bathroom.” I turn to leave.

  “She still cares a lot about you,” I hear Josh telling her as he slides the cork out of the wine. I resist the urge to listen at the door.

  We leave around ten and decide to celebrate the rest of the evening at my apartment. Once inside, I toss Cora a pair of snow boots. “Put those on. I’ll get the wine.” I hesitate on my way out of the room but leave to fetch a bottle and an opener. “Will you be warm enough to walk somewhere with me?”

  She looks conflicted but nods. “Sure. Lead the way.”

  I pull an old Cleveland Browns hat down over my ears then hand her my plain black watch cap.

  As we trudge through the snow to Cumberland park, about a twelve-minute walk from my building, I open the wine. “Swings,” I say, swigging from the bottle. I hand it to her.

  “Oh, all we need is public intox,” she replies, but she takes a sip anyway. “Nothing like a couple of detectives getting busted on Christmas.”

  We laugh. “Oh, right, we are in bored-in-Heights-ville.” It’s a joke that CDP makes all the time about Cleveland Heights, and Cora is a good sport.

  “I was off last night,” she reminds me. “Were you?”

  “Touché.” I lead her to a swing set, where we have a contest to see who can go higher. I win because Cora is worried about flipping over the bar, but then she jumps off of the swing, flies through the air, and lands on her feet like a cat. “I stuck the landing!” she shouts, laughing wildly.

  We make a couple of snow angels, and I’m in awe when she kisses me deeply. “Let’s go,” I whisper. “The snow. We’re wet.” I pull her up, and we tromp arm-in-arm through the snow and back to my apartment, where we make love then fall asleep together.

  I’m awakened by the sound of my phone. I scrub my hand over my face, remove Cora’s arm from around my waist, and squint at the screen. Castor. I slide out of bed, careful not to wake her, and take the call in the kitchen.

  “You’re never gonna believe this,” he says.

  I yawn and fill the coffee maker with water. “Believe what?”

  “He turned himself in. Our frozen-Santa perp. He came in two hours ago and spilled it all.”

  I fill the basket with coffee. “No shit. Really? Let me guess. Just hear me out.”

  “Go for it. You get it right, I’m buying rounds when you’re back on.”

  “I’m on tomorrow. I think our vic was robbing local bell-ringers. One of the guys he robbed got pissed. He followed the robber without involving the police, because the suburbs couldn’t seem to catch him, and shot him. They were over on the west side because the vic, also the thief, lives over there and was targeting the east side to throw us off.”

  Castor whistles. He doesn’t know what I know about the Santa robber or that I’m just spinning a story—I don’t have Cora’s notes yet. Could it be this easy? Don’t think about the other cases. Don’t think about whatever you’ll catch after your days off. Let it be easy, because it never is.

  I keep going. “Our perp got the vic into his car somehow, shot him, then dumped him up on Detroit. He cleaned up the mess, went home to his family, and felt guilty.”

  “How about motive?” Castor asks.

  “Hmm. That’s harder. Whose motive?”

  “The thief.”

  “The thief used to work for the Salvation Army but was let go for some reason. He needed money to buy a present for his grandkid.”

  “You are so, so close,” he replies. “Damn, Boyle, are you sure you don’t want to come work for me?”

  I chuckle. “What was off?”

  “The thief’s motive. We don’t know it yet, and we may not ever. We’re notifying next of kin today.”

  I sigh. “Want me to come in and take care of it?”

  “Nah. Good work, Boyle. I really appreciate you covering the desk. Beer’s on me. Seriously.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell him that Cora basically solved the case. “Thanks, Castor. Have a good one.”

  “Ten-four.”

  We end the call just as the coffee maker brews enough for two cups. I dump a lot of cream in mine and a dash into Cora’s before filling the mugs and taking them to the bedroom.

  I’ll have to tell her she was right.

  I have a lot of things to say to her.

  Books By Kate

  The Flats: A Liz Boyle Mystery

  About Kate

  Kate Birdsall was born in the heart of the Rust Belt and harbors a hesitant affinity for its grit. She’s an existentialist who writes both short and long fiction, and she plays a variety of loud instruments. She lives in Michigan’s capital city with her partner and at least one too many four-legged creatures.

  Get In Touch:

  Website: www.katebirdsall.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/katebirdsallauthor

  Instagram: www.instagram.com/punkrockmysterywriter/?hl=en

  Twitter: @KEBirdsall

  A Crazy Christmas

  by Kelly Stone Gamble

  I’m standing on Grams’ porch with a hammer in one hand and an arm full of tangled Christmas lights in the other, wishing I could just set the large oak in the front yard on fire instead of decorating it.

  “What are you waiting for? Straighten those out so we can see why the hell they don’t work, then we can get this over with.” Roland crumples up his empty can of PBR, throws it in Grams’ yard, and grabs another one from the half-gone twelve pack next to him.

  “This would have been easier if you’d have been here five hours ago like you said you would,” I say. I bite my lip as soon as the words leave my mouth.

  It’s Christmas Eve, and Roland dropped me off this morning so I could help Grams cook. He said he’d be back by noon. I wasn’t going to mention it because he left with a pocketful of money and I’m kind of hoping he’s been out trying to find me a pair of those black and green Lucchese ostrich boots I’ve been hinting that I want. Hell, I showed him the picture four times and left it on the seat of his truck this morning. He’d have to be dumber than a slug eating salt to miss that.

  “It would have been easier if your looney Grandma paid someone to put the damn lights up a week ago. And besides, I had shit to do,” he says. Roland always has shit to do.

  “Grams says it’s bad luck to put the lights up early,” I say as I try to find the end of the string of lights.

  Roland stands up and stretches while I continue to try to unwrap the lights. It seems like I’m tying them in knots instead of untangling them. I wish I hadn’t taken my pills this morning; they always make me fuzzy, and it sure would have been easier to do this if I could think straight. But it’s Christmas Eve, and the last thing I want is for Roland to start in on me about not taking my pills. He says they keep me from doing crazy shit but I’m pretty sure I’m capable of that with or without the pills. He just doesn’t know that.

  “Here we go.” Roland laughs and motions toward the street. Clay, Roland’s brother, is parking his truck in front of Grams’ house. Even from here, I can see that the cab of his truck is loaded with presents—the red, green, and silver paper and bows peek over the passenger door and block my view of him in the truck. He gets out carrying three packages and smiles as he walks toward us.

  “Merry Christmas,” he says.

  I can’t help but smile at Clay. He’s the quiet one of the two brothers, and unlike most people in town, is always nice to me. I don’t see him much since Roland moved us to the shack on the outside of town, but when I do, it’s like he’s excited to see me. Me. Not Roland. He can’t
stand his brother, and the feeling is mutual. “Who are all the presents for?” I ask and nod toward the truck.

  “Shaylene,” he says. “She and her mom open presents at midnight, so I thought it would be easier to load—”

  “Whatever,” Roland says. Shaylene is Clay’s adopted daughter, and I don’t think Roland considers her to be a real niece. “Say, you should be familiar with things that are sparkly. Why don’t you help Cass with these lights?” Roland thinks Clay is gay because he never seems to have a girlfriend. I think he just hasn’t found anyone he wants to hang out with for very long.

  Clay squints at Roland. Then he takes the lights from me and hands me the presents. “Not a problem.”

  Roland’s phone dings and he looks at it and smiles. “I’ll be back,” he says.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” I say.

  “Tina says there’s some trouble at the club and I’m the one she calls when there’s a problem.” He thumps me on the forehead with two fingers. “And besides, I don’t need to tell you where I’m goin’, remember?” Roland is the head bouncer at Fat Tina’s strip joint on the outside of town. It seems like she always has “trouble” out there.

  “Dinner is at seven and then we open presents. Don’t be late!” I scream at his back as he walks toward his truck, swinging the rest of his twelve-pack beside him.

  Clay shakes his head and I hear him mumble, “What a piece of work.” Then he turns to me and the big smile is back. “Don’t worry about him. Go help your grandmother with dinner and I’ll get these lights put up. The big tree in front, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say as I watch Roland’s pickup turn left at the corner on Eighteenth Street. I know Tina’s is to the right.

  Last year, Grams bought me How the Grinch Stole Christmas! on DVD—the original one, not the new one where the Grinch is an empty-headed flake instead of a pissed-off sadist in need of a good ass whoopin’—and I’m watching it for the second time after eating too much dinner and way too much butterscotch bread pudding. And cherry cobbler. And pecan pie.