Deadly Traditions, page 21
“That’s swell,” I said. “What a fancy badge you must have! May I see it?”
“Not at the moment. I’m discussing serious business with your parents.”
“Run on back upstairs.” Daddy jerked his head slightly toward the doorway. “I’ll be up in a little bit.”
“All right.” I hurried up the steps as Dot was emerging from her room.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“There’s some gumshoe in the living room claiming to be a fed.”
“Let’s go to the top of the stairs and listen.”
I caught her arm before she could dart past me. “No. Daddy said he’ll be up here to talk to us in a few minutes.”
“Daddy or the fed?”
“Daddy,” I said.
“Do you think the guy really is a fed, or is he an imposter?”
“I don’t know.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “He wouldn’t show me his badge.”
“That’s a sure sign he’s a fake,” she said.
“Either way, Daddy won’t be fooled. I have confidence in him…and Mother, too, for that matter.” If fact, I didn’t have as much confidence in either of them as I pretended to have. I just prayed they’d be all right.
Looking back, I had to admit I was pretty full of myself in those days.
Once the detective left, Daddy found Dot and me still in her room.
“She knows everything,” I told him. “She heard you and Mother talking, and I filled her in on the rest.”
“That’s good,” Daddy said. “We should all be aware of what’s going on.”
“Was the man downstairs a real fed?” Dot asked, hopping off the bed. “Or was he a phony?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s go to the kitchen and discuss it over cocoa.”
Mother was already in the kitchen heating the milk in a saucepan. As she added cocoa powder and sugar, she asked Dot if she’d like to stir. Dot, who was keen on perfecting her cooking skills, gave her an enthusiastic yes.
Even though I could make a passable breakfast, I never particularly cared for cooking; but I did enjoy cocoa and was appreciative of anyone willing to make me some.
“You said you weren’t sure if the gumshoe was really who he claimed to be,” I said. “Why not?”
“I feel that under the circumstances, we need to exercise an abundance of caution with anyone and everyone,” Daddy said. “He told us he was retracing the actions of Freddy and Mavis on the night they were murdered and that he knew they’d been here.”
“How did he know that if he wasn’t following them or something in the first place?” Dot asked.
“Good point,” I said. “Did he mention how he knew?”
“No, but I didn’t ask either.” He folded his hands. “Instead, I said yes, Freddy was an old friend that I hadn’t seen since we were in school together. I explained that Freddy had moved away and we lost touch. He dropped by to introduce us to Mavis.”
“Did he try to accuse you of anything, Daddy?” Dot asked.
“No. He asked if I knew where Freddy and Mavis were going after they left here, and I said I imagined they were headed to his mother’s house.”
“That is where he told us they were going,” Mother said.
“The police officer said they never got there and asked if I’d seen the account of their deaths in the paper.” He scratched his head. “I admitted that I had.”
“The man acted as if he wanted to keep pushing but knew he didn’t have a reason for doing so.” Mother turned off the stove and poured the cocoa into four mugs. “He wanted to know if Freddy said anything unusual, did he talk about his work, did he mention any of his associates–that sort of thing. Your daddy said of course not, why would Freddy discuss any of that with him?”
“The only thing I did say was that Freddy talked about settling down and marrying Mavis,” Daddy said. “And that was true.”
“Did he show you his badge?” I asked.
“Briefly. It looked real though.” He lowered his voice as if the detective might be outside with an ear to the wall. “We didn’t mention the gun. We found it suspicious that he came to us without our even calling the police. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go out–the entire family–for a walk. We’ll drop the gun on the ground near the police station if we can do it without being seen.”
“I have a better idea,” Mother said. “Dot and I will make sugar cookies to take to the police station. While we’re there, you can nonchalantly place the gun where it’s sure to be found. We’ll be rid of it, and if anyone is watching us, they’ll know we’ve gone to the police. That should get us out of the soup all the way around.”
“What an excellent idea, love.” Daddy lifted his mug in a salute.
“Fancy a game of chess while those two are baking?” I asked.
“You’re on.”
We had a solid plan and could finally relax and enjoy ourselves for the first time in two days. This nightmare was close to being over.
That night as I was on the precipice of sleep, I heard a light tap and then my door creaking open. Knowing before even hearing her voice that it was Dot, I whispered, “What’s the matter?”
“I can’t sleep.”
I threw back the covers so she could get into bed with me. “Of course, you can’t sleep. You’re up wandering around the house.”
“It’s not that,” she said, sliding in beside me. “I keep thinking I hear something downstairs.”
“You’re apprehensive about tomorrow, that’s all. I am too. But–” I stopped speaking because I also heard something. Raising my index finger to my lips, I got out of bed and crept to the door.
Dot was right on my heels. We tiptoed down the hall to Mother and Daddy’s room. I reached for the doorknob, but the door opened. Gasping, I jumped back, knocking into Dot. She righted herself as Daddy came out of the room.
“Have you two been downstairs?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “We heard something too.”
“Go in there and stay with your mother. Close and lock the door. Don’t open it until I say so.”
“I’m going with you,” I said.
“You are not. Now is not the time for your stubbornness.”
“Then you stay with us.” I threw my arms around him. “If somebody is here for that dumb gun, then let ‘em have it.”
He kissed the top of my head. “Stay with your mother and Dot. I’m counting on you to keep them safe.”
He knew that would get me. I did as I was told. I went into the room, closed and locked the door, and walked toward the bed where Dot was clinging to Mother.
“Will Daddy be all right?” Dot asked in a small, sad voice.
“Of course, he will,” Mother said.
I eased over to the window and looked outside. There in the light of the full moon, I saw the tiny old woman who’d been here collecting for widows and orphans. “Mother, look.”
She extricated herself from Dot and came to the window. “What’s she doing?”
“Keeping watch, I imagine. I’m going–”
Mother pointed her finger at me. “You’ll stay here with your sister. I’ll take care of that one.”
As soon as Mother left, I asked Dot, “What do you think?”
“Get the ladder,” she said.
Nodding, I sneaked into the hallway, opened the closet, and retrieved the rope ladder. By the time I’d returned to Mother and Daddy’s room, Dot had opened the window. I secured the ladder to the windowsill and down I went.
The woman didn’t see me, and she gave a shriek when I tackled her. Lucky for her, there was snow on the ground to cushion her fall. Since she was down, I sat her on to ensure she wasn’t going anywhere.
Unlike me, Dot had the good sense to put on shoes before she climbed down the ladder.
“I’m going for the police,” she called as she raced down the street.
The old lady started to scream again, so I shoved her face into the snow.
“You hush,” I said. “And you’re giving back that money my mother gave you for the widows and orphans.”
“I am a widow.” Her words were muffled, but I could understand her. “But you’re gonna be an orphan when my son gets done with your parents.”
I smashed her head more firmly into the ground and prayed Dot would return soon.
And then there she was–our little rescuer–and with her was that gumshoe and a bunch of other coppers.
“That didn’t take long,” I said.
“They were staking us out.” She smiled like being surveilled was the greatest thing ever, and in that moment, I supposed it was.
A uniformed officer helped me stand and then put handcuffs on the old lady. Another one picked me up saying I’d get frostbite on my feet if I wasn’t careful, and I fell in love with that handsome young man then and there. He and the officer with Dot–who’d been wrapped in a charcoal gray blanket–and the handcuffed old lady hung back until the other officers went inside and rescued our parents.
There wasn’t a lot of “rescue” involved, however, because Mother had already brained the woman’s son with her cast iron skillet. I doubted he’d remember anything about this night when he woke up.
And guess who he was? James Carter. Or, rather, the man we’d been introduced to as James Carter. He wasn’t our neighbor’s son at all. Poor Mrs. Carter had been forced to go along with the ruse because his real mom–the old lady I’d tackled in the yard–had taken Mrs. Carter’s beloved cat William and had threatened to kill him if Mrs. Carter didn’t cooperate.
My knight in shining uniform carried me into the house and deposited me on a chair by the fireplace. He took his gloves off to stoke the fire, and I spied a wedding ring. I was ever so heartbroken until I spotted another young officer on the other side of the room who was absolutely the elephant’s eyebrows. Hope springs eternal, as they say.
* * *
BACK TO THE PRESENT
“Was William all right?” Zoe asked.
“How about the gun?” Amanda asked. “What happened to that?”
“William was fine and continued to poop in Mother’s flower bed until he was almost twenty years old,” I said. “He outlived me, as a matter of fact.”
“And the gun?” Dave prompted.
“Oh, yeah. The boss went to jail for killing the other gangster and for ordering the murders of Freddy and Mavis.”
“The other gangster?” Dwight frowned. “I thought you said the boss had killed a policeman.”
“That’s right. I misspoke.”
My nephew was smirking at me, and I swatted at him. Never mind that I couldn’t touch him.
“That’s an amazing story,” Zoe said.
“It is. And all that talk of cookies and cocoa made me hungry.” Amanda tried futilely to wipe the glitter off her hands. “I’m going to wash up and make us some cocoa.”
“Real cocoa like my great-grandmother used to make?” Zoe asked.
“Yep.”
As Zoe and Amanda left the room, Dwight said, “I’m surprised I never heard that story growing up, Aunt Max.”
“Me too,” I said.
Dave tried unsuccessfully to smother a chuckle. “Is it true?”
I grinned. “To the best of my recollection, absolutely.”
If you enjoyed reading about Max and her friends, please check out Designs on Murder, the first book in the Ghostly Fashionista series, at https://books2read.com/u/bPgEl7. Please also visit my site at https://www.gayleleeson.com/ to check out my other books.
About Gayle Leeson
Gayle Leeson is the author of the Ghostly Fashionista Mystery Series, the Down South Cafe Mystery Series, and the upcoming Movie Memorabilia Mystery Series. As G. Leeson, she writes the portal fantasy Literatia series. Gayle lives in Virginia and loves Christmas. She’s looking forward to pulling a reverse-Grinch on her son’s apartment this year.
A Pickle in a Pear Tree
ERIN SCOGGINS
A yacht decked out in tinsel. A romantic Christmas proposal. ‘Tis the season for a holiday heist this bride-to-be won’t soon forget.
A Pickle in a Pear Tree
I finished wrapping twinkle lights around the High Tide’s handrail and glanced across the yacht’s lavishly appointed deck. Despite the warm, salty breeze that highlighted an unusually warm North Carolina December, it was the perfect setup for a Christmas engagement party.
The promise of three hours on a luxury yacht equipped with a high-end caterer, a full bar, and a gorgeous view of the sun setting over the coast was the ideal way to cap off Carolina Weddings’ first year in business, and as “Deck the Halls” echoed from the sound system, I finally felt the holiday spirit start to flow through me.
Almost every surface on the two-hundred-foot ship boasted the kind of Christmas cheer only somebody with deep pockets could display. From the freshly cut pine boughs and sprigs of crimson-berried holly lining the four separate buffet tables to the hand-blown crystal goblets awaiting glasses of overpriced champagne, my client had spared no expense to ensure this party was a smash. Eliza Bullard, a Flat Falls socialite, wanted everything to be flawless, and I had worked overtime to make each detail worthy of a spread in Coastal Living magazine.
The only thing that hadn’t gone according to Eliza’s twenty-seven-page plan was Santa. Apparently, the after-hours actor I hired from the mall to sit on the main deck and “ho ho ho” for photo opportunities had run off with the lady from the cinnamon bun kiosk and was spending the holidays in Aruba. Assuring me I had nothing to worry about, the agency sent over someone they called a “top-notch yuletide professional.”
They were wrong.
Normally, I was a fan of the jolly old elf. He brought sparkly presents and gave me an excuse to eat my body weight in sprinkle-covered cookies on Christmas Eve. But when I spotted this version of Santa, with his crooked beard and scratchy velour suit that smelled like steamed broccoli, my flicker of holiday joy started to dim. Suddenly, three hours seemed like an eternity, and I searched through my handbag for a Tums while I counted exactly how many minutes I had left before this Christmas party was over and I could abandon ship.
When he caught me staring, Santa wiggled his bushy eyebrows and a flurry of snow—or at least the baby powder he’d used to whiten the wooly worms above his eyes—drifted to his pockmarked cheeks. He leaned back in his folding deck chair and kicked his feet up on the plywood cutout I had hand-painted in shades of gold and red to resemble the front of a sleigh. “Hey, Glory. Want to make it onto the nice list?”
Nausea rolled through me, and it had nothing to do with the rocking waves below. “No, thanks.” I picked up one of the three-pronged oyster forks I had artfully arranged next to the seafood platter. “I’d rather stab myself with this.”
“The night’s still young.” He pressed a hand to his belly and let out a low chuckle, and the chair’s uncomfortable groan matched my own.
I debated launching the fork at him like a javelin, but coating the deck of the glamorous yacht with Saint Nick’s arterial spray probably wouldn’t earn me a five-star rating on Google. Since I was a relatively new wedding planner, I needed all the positive press I could get.
As the boat rocked against the pilings, I placed the fork gently back on the table and steadied myself with a hand on the railing. My aunt, Beverlee Wells-Bartholomew, sashayed across the ship, her flirty red dress with white faux fur collar making her look like one of Santa’s helpers. She plucked a shrimp off the platter in front of me. “Mia still doesn’t know what’s happening. You did a good job setting up this surprise.”
I glanced across the yacht’s oversized deck toward the main salon, a two-story tower of reflective glass and chrome that practically twinkled beneath the Christmas lights. White tulle wound around the columns, frosted gingerbread surfers in tiny Santa hats topped wooden tables, and platters of imported lobsters rested on beds of crushed ice. It was all part of an elaborate surprise that Eliza Bullard had concocted to land her only son, Hampton, a suitable bride. I hoped Mia Whitlow, the unsuspecting guest of honor and Hampton’s girlfriend of just over a year, loved it as much as her future mother-in-law.
“Where’s the pickle?” Beverlee asked, craning her neck to inspect the twelve-foot Fraser fir that had been draped with blush and sterling ornaments hand-picked by the groom-to-be’s overly involved mother.
“Hush.” I glanced around to make sure we were alone. Aside from Santa, who was studying my legs like he was making his own Christmas list, nobody seemed to be listening. “The pickle is supposed to be a secret.”
Eliza wanted to pay homage to her family’s German roots by hiding a sculpted glass pickle ornament amongst the Christmas tree branches. “It’s our family’s favorite tradition,” she had said during our first meeting as she held out a hunk of glass that looked suspiciously like a seasick slug. “Whoever finds the pickle on Christmas morning gets a special present and has good luck throughout the next year.” I hadn’t ever heard of such a tradition, but I was always in favor of games that got me extra gifts.
She had the ornament handmade by a local artist, and it included a hinged opening that concealed a 3-carat diamond ring that Eliza had also selected. “Mia is going to be a Bullard,” Eliza had said as she opened the pickle to show off the ring during our last meeting. She also directed me to find the largest, fluffiest tree within driving distance of Flat Falls so she could hide the ring amongst the branches before the guests arrived. “The tree should be grand enough to make a statement—just like Mia’s ring.”
The ring made a statement, all right. With its halo of yellow diamonds surrounding a pear-shaped center stone, it was every bit as gaudy and over-the-top as Eliza herself.
I wasn’t even sure why Eliza needed me to help her plan this party. She showed up at our first meeting several months ago wielding a binder stuffed with drawings of the boat and the ring, a full menu, and the names of every vendor she intended to use. Whenever I suggested changes, she referred me to the minute-by-minute timeline she had prepared and told me to stick to my lane.
