Crimes Most Merry and Albright

by Larissa Reinhart

  "What about Martha Mae Boyes? And Pearl?" I said. "What happened to them?"

  "They're next door. I take full responsibility. Had them captive in the bathroom."

  "You sumbitch," said Casey.

  "I wasn't going to kill them. Just holding them until Krystal could get out of here. Same with you. We just needed to get gone first."

  I looked at Casey. The police would want this information, but I didn't trust Jay. Why would he give up so easily? We might have double-teamed him, but he'd flipped from maniacal to melancholy.

  Which reminded me of an episode of Kung Fu Kate, "Double-Crossed Deuces." I'd done that show at twelve, but still. The antagonist had been covering for someone. Like Jay might be doing for Krystal. But he must know, Krystal would still be considered an accomplice.

  "You're her father," I said. "You think you're helping Krystal."

  His body tensed.

  "Looks like she's past helping." Casey had picked up a pad of paper from the nightstand and flipped through the pages. "My sister drew everything she saw today. First picture shows Santa choking Mrs. Boyes. Except Santa's beard and hat had come off. It's a woman."

  "That don't mean nothing," said Jay.

  "You might not know this, but my sister is famous in these parts for her ability to quick sketch accurately. My uncle's hired her to sketch profiles at the sheriff's department. And she's worked at Six Flags all during high school."

  "What else is in that sketchbook?" I said. "That's evidence."

  "You." Casey smirked. Tossing the sketchbook on the bed, she cradled the shotgun. "And this man showing me, you, and then Pearl the inside of Mrs. Boyes's house."

  Oh boy, evidence of my breaking and entering. Oh well. There were more important considerations now.

  "Do you have a phone on you, Jay?" I said. "Will Krystal answer if you call?"

  At his nod, I reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the phone. He walked me through dialing Krystal's number.

  "Well?" said Casey.

  "She's not answering." I pocketed his phone.

  "Dammit," said Jay. "Tell her I've given myself up. Immediately. Before you say anything else. Have her call me. I'll tell her. Before she does something she regrets."

  "Casey, don't shoot him unless you absolutely have to. I'm going next door." I hopped off the air conditioner.

  Then froze at the sound of a gunshot.

  I whirled around, searching the artist's bedroom. But the sound hadn't come from this house. Casey had jumped to her feet and repositioned the shotgun. Jay had twisted to look out the window.

  I leaned over the air conditioner. "Casey, can you get him into another room?"

  She nodded.

  "It's too late," said Jay morosely. "Damn girl."

  "What's too late?" Scenes from every horror movie I'd ever known crossed my mind.

  "Krystal crossed the line. There's no getting her back now."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "It's my fault. I couldn't protect Krystal when I was doing time. She managed to stay away from the law this long. Krystal's smart. But I told her to keep away from that woman, she'd lead her down the wrong road. Krys thinks she can play people, but I know better. That woman can talk her way in and out of situations better than Krys."

  "What woman?" Please don't say, Celia Fowler, I thought. Please, don't let it be the grandma.

  "Don't matter now," said Jay. "I tried to help her out of this situation. Willing to lay my life down for that girl. Go back to prison for my baby. But apples don't fall far from trees."

  "Keep him talking, Casey. I've got to go next door to help." I glanced at Casey over his shoulder.

  Her shoulders shook, but her dark eyes had shrunk into two slits, narrowed with rage. "We need to know what's going on to help the police when they come."

  "I heard that shot, same as you," she said. "And my sister doesn't have a gun. I know what's going on. You're going to get yourself killed, too."

  "We don't know what happened." But as I ran, I prayed for to my Hallmark Channel angel. Please, please don't let anyone die.

  Twenty-Three

  Maizie Albright

  #GeeIWishIWereBackInTheArmy

  * * *

  Nash hadn't trained me in tactical defense situations. Despite what you see in the movies, private investigators aren't involved in shootouts. Nash hadn't bothered to train me much on anything. Except how to answer his phone, use his billing software, and to jiggle the office toilet handle when the water doesn't stop running.

  Although I often discredited the writers on Julia Pinkerton and Kung Fu Kate for their unbelievable plots, my multitude of directors (TV production is a career meat grinder) had excelled at coaching me into making the unbelievable look believable. With the help of experts. Namely Detective Earl King, who showed me how to hold a gun properly and the real way officers clear a room.

  Which was how I approached Martha Mae's house. Checking corners before proceeding. Running the wall. Scanning windows from the side. I carefully climbed over the ice-coated porch rail and sidled to the front window. Repositioned to look again. Got a look from another angle. Hesitated. Then rang the doorbell and knocked.

  An older woman in a sweatshirt decorated with goats answered. "Cherry told me not to let anyone in, but I figure if you're coming to kill us, you won't bother to ring the bell."

  "Are you Pearl?" I said. "Are you all right?"

  "My sciatica is acting up, thanks to sitting on a toilet all day, but other than that I'm fine." She stepped back, studying me. "You must be the nosy movie star."

  "I'm Maizie Albright. Not a movie star, although I've done plenty of TV movies." I automatically stuck my hand out to shake hers. Luckily, I was used to improv. My adrenaline kick had subsided into a low hum and I turned myself over to another kind of instinct. Small talk with fans. "Now I'm a private investigator. Or at least training to be one. I hope. If it works out. Anyway, here to help."

  "Can't say we need your help now unless you're driving an ambulance or a paddy wagon. Do you know where that man went?"

  "Jay's been apprehended. Casey's got the shotgun on him. And help is on its way. I think."

  She snorted. "Hope that baby doesn't throw her off balance. Guess you ought to come in. Colder than an Eskimo's outhouse out here."

  I followed her inside. On the floor, a woman lay hogtied with what looked like lengths of fabric. She ducked her head up to study me.

  "Are you Krystal Fowler?"

  "Go to hell."

  "Told us her name was Krys. I’m guessing her last name isn’t Kringle." Pearl trotted to the couch, sat, and reached for the coffee cup on the coffee table.

  White Christmas played on the TV. If it weren't for the hamstrung prisoner on the floor, it'd be a cozy scene.

  "I'm watching her. I've got her gun right here. Shot it up the fireplace flue to show her I knew what I was doing." Pearl patted the pistol next to her thigh. "I didn't want to shoot up Martha Mae's house. It's a mess as it is."

  "I'm going to kill you, old woman," said Krystal.

  "You and what army? Try it, and I'll shoot you plain as day. I raise goats. I'm tougher than I look." Pearl's attention swiveled to the TV. She patted her chest and sniffled. "That Bing Crosby. Gets me every time."

  Krystal's head thunked to the ground.

  I'd entered a Christmas episode of The Twilight Zone.

  "Aren't you worried she'll escape?" I said.

  "Nah," said Pearl. "Too many knots. Plus, I have no compunction shooting someone who'd tied me to a toilet for hours on end. I'm stiffer than a corpse."

  Okay, then. Take a note not to mess with Pearl.

  "Where's Martha Mae Boyes?" I asked.

  "On the bed. Took some work to get her there. She came to for a minute, but she's laid flat. That's why we need the ambulance. That girl choked her. I'm surprised Martha Mae didn't have a heart attack, but she's like me. Tough old bird."

  "The artist?"

  "Cherry? Pa
ssed out on the bedroom floor." Pearl shook her head, looking disgusted. "That's what happens when you overexert yourself with the flu. I warned her."

  "Maybe you should check on them? I'll watch Krystal while you do."

  "All right. I could use a break." Pearl rose, rubbing her lower back. She pointed toward the TV. "They're going to do that modern dance scene, anyway. Never cared for that number."

  I waited until I heard the bedroom door close, then squatted next to their prisoner. "Krystal, what happened to the police officer? The one you took hostage?"

  Her head flopped to the other side, facing the tree. "Probably dead."

  My stomach lurched. "But where is he?"

  She laughed. "Doesn't matter now."

  Glancing up, I spotted the shovel leaning against the wall. Oh my God. The garden hole.

  "Pearl, I've gotta go back out," I yelled. "Call for another ambulance."

  Twenty-Four

  Cherry Tucker

  I woke with a start, finding myself on the floor of a dark room. Leaping up, I lost my pants, tripped, and hit the floor again. I'd forgotten I had used my homemade belt to bind Krys's hands. After I repeatedly screamed "Merry Christmas" for what felt like forever, Pearl had bounded from the bathroom. I sent her to search for rope. Pearl brought me quilting strips and binding tape. Not my first choice in trussing material. But what was I going to do? Use a string of Christmas lights?

  Snatching another strip of cloth from Martha Mae's basket, I tied the sweatpants around my waist and crept down the hall. White Christmas still played on the TV in the living room. I took it as a good sign and entered. Sighed with relief to see our prisoner still captive.

  Pearl waved the gun.

  I leaned over her. "Still unconscious? I walloped her pretty good."

  "Naw," said Pearl. "Asleep. Told me my movie was boring."

  "What kind of criminal falls asleep on the living room floor?"

  "It's been a long day." Pearl patted the couch next to her. "Come watch White Christmas with me. You just missed that movie star gal. She was here earlier, then ran out. Came back unbelievably dirty."

  "Why?"

  "Dug up Martha Mae's garden. Strange night all around. But she was real excited about something she thinks is in the garage. Spied on those two earlier and overheard them talking in there. The movie star thought something important was in the trunk. She's gone back to get the keys from Martha Mae's nephew. She and Casey's got him tied up over at the house."

  "He's not Mrs. Boyes's nephew," I said. "He's a bank robber. And he strangled Martha."

  "The movie star said he didn't strangle Martha Mae."

  "What does she know?"

  "It's you who knows. You drew the girl strangling Martha Mae." Pearl pointed to a garbage bag under the tree. "And look in there. But don't touch it. It's evidence. Or so says Movie Star. She was all tore up about this gal being the one to strangle Martha and rob a bank. I think she hoped that man had done it all."

  "Who wouldn't be tore up, but why does she care who did it?"

  "Said it was the grandma's fault, but I didn't see any grandma threatening to kill us, did you?"

  I shook my head. Maybe it was the flu. Maybe it was Pearl. But her explanation lacked something. Namely reason and logic. Hurrying over to the tree, I snatched an icicle ornament and used it to open the muddy bag and draw out the clothing inside.

  "A Santa suit," I said.

  "For a girl," said Pearl. "That nephew is too big. It's Krys's suit. You saw Krys strangling Martha Mae. The nephew is her father. He's a piece of work, mind you. But he didn't instigate any of this. He arrived to clean up the mess."

  "Clean up the mess by terrorizing us." I pushed the Santa suit back in the bag.

  "Oh, not just terrorize. The movie star said he meant to kill us. Get rid of the evidence, so Krys here wouldn't get caught. 'Course he probably meant to split her share of the bank's money. He's a felon, too."

  "A felon for a father."

  "And bank robber for a grandfather, or so said the movie star. You can't pick your relatives." Pearl shook her head. "Speaking of relatives, your sister blew a hole in your bedroom wall."

  "Did anybody think to call the sheriff about all this?"

  "Of course, we did. Who do you think we are?"

  Obviously not suffering from victim PTSD. Or maybe that came later. Right now, Pearl looked ready for chestnuts roasting over an open fire. Humming along to the movie.

  "Casey said Nik called his foreign friends," said Pearl. "They're bringing a salt truck. You ever heard of such a thing?"

  "I don't want to know how they got a hold of a salt truck, but we need it. Uncle Will can get here faster. Toss them in the—“ I almost bit my tongue in my haste to change subjects. "Krys drove the getaway car. But Deputy Fells said the driver left when the bank's alarm went off. The bank robbers were given a van, but they never found Luke in the van or at the Winn Dixie."

  Shaking her head, Pearl compressed her lips into a grim line.

  "She could have been waiting to meet them." I leaned over Krys. "We searched her for weapons, but did we get her keys?"

  "I told you that movie star went to get the man's keys. But the stuff from her pockets is on the kitchen table."

  "If Movie Star is right, they must have driven separately." I ran toward the kitchen and saw the keys in a pile with a phone, lighter, and a small plastic ammo box. Holding my sweatpants in one hand, I grabbed the keys and darted through the door to the garage. Two vehicles. I pressed the key’s unlock button.

  One car flashed its lights.

  I banged on the garage door opener to light the room and ran to the Toyota's trunk. Behind me, the door rumbled and lifted. I popped the trunk release and lifted the lid.

  Tears welled in my eyes. Luke lay curled in the trunk, his head bent and limbs coiled to fit the space. He'd been gagged and bound with zip-ties. Stripped of his coat, boots, and gear. A nasty cut marked his forehead. One eye had purpled. A bloody gash behind his ear revealed his takedown. Blue veins stood stark against his normally sun-browned skin, now turned white with cold.

  They'd turned my tough, rugged officer into a human popsicle.

  Anger stoked my fever. Tears blurred my eyes. I clawed my way toward the top of the pit, scrabbling against the long dark tunnel, and a howling sob tore from my chest.

  "You've been here the entire time. Why didn't they tell me what had happened to you? I would have kicked doors down to get to you." I reached to stroke a dusky curl off his forehead, then shrugged out of my coat to lay it over him. "You're so cold."

  One gray eye opened slowly and blinked. He groaned through the gag. His big body trembled and shuddered, trying to fight the binds.

  "Let me find something to cut you out of there." I scurried through the garage and returned with pruning clippers. A minute later, I helped him to uncurl, cringing at his sluggish, stiff movements. I climbed into the trunk to pull his trembling body against mine. I wanted to hurry him into the house, but Luke could barely move.

  "Lord, you're colder than death. We need to get you in a bath or something."

  "You're so warm. Scorching." He pressed against me, snuggling me into arms. "I can think of a better way to heat up than a bath."

  I pulled back. "Really? You've been stuck in a trunk for who knows how long. You probably have frostbite and a concussion. That's the first thing you think of?"

  "I'll admit if I were leaning against the sheriff, that wouldn't be my first thought." He smiled weakly, but his eyes told a different story. "Where's Sheriff Thompson? Why isn't he here? Where am I? Did the team apprehend the bank heist gang?"

  "I'm your rescuer. You are next door to my house. Long story. Your team consists of me, Pearl, Casey, and some movie star private detective."

  "What?" He swayed.

  I caught him before he tried to climb out of the trunk.

  "The sheriff never should've let them go. Those bastards pistol-whipped me. I woke up in here, then couldn't sta
y awake in the cold. Tried to knock out the back lights, but I couldn't move. Felt like a human pretzel."

  "Uncle Will knew they'd kill you otherwise." I pulled him against me. "It's not your fault."

  "It shouldn't have happened." He fell silent, tensing against another onslaught of shaking. "Damn, I hate how weak I feel."

  "Tell me about it. I've been saying that all day."

  "In a minute. You have the flu. You should be in bed." He pulled my forehead to his lips. "Are you hot with fever or am I that cold? This isn't making sense. How did you end up here? Where is everyone?"

  "Later." I caught him against my shoulder, feeling another tremor tear through him. "Right now, we're getting you in the house. Pearl's inside. She'll fix you up."

  "Just a minute." He slipped his arms around me, pulling me against his chest.

  Through his shirt, his chilled flesh cooled my hot cheek. I wrapped my arms around him, and his taut muscles shivered at my touch. My sister used to say we were like fire and ice. Tonight, it was a literal interpretation.

  Luke rubbed his cheek against my hair. "Cherry, lying in that trunk, I thought I was going to die from exposure. I kept thinking about what it would do to you. I know how this time of year makes you feel." His chest rose and released slowly. "I'm sorry. I offered to be the hostage exchange. It's my job. I knew the risks. But…"

  He swallowed hard. "Your Christmas was ruined. Again. Forgive me?"

  I didn't want him to see my tears, but I drew away from his chest anyway. Placed my warm hands against his cold cheeks. And stared into his somber gray eyes.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I couldn't have asked for a better Christmas." I leaned in, using a kiss to heat his frosty lips. "Best Christmas ever."

  Twenty-Five

  Maizie Albright

  #AllIWantForChristmas #IsASaltTruck #AndYou