Diva Wraps It Up, The

by Davis, Krista

  As I set up the Christmas Village in the living room, I couldn’t help thinking about Horace and his Brown-Eyed Girl. Clearly, he must have been Moondoggie. When was that character popular? In the sixties? The early seventies? Horace must have been very young. And very much in love to keep that letter all these years. I had no idea he was such a romantic.

  I gasped, startling Mochie during his careful prowl through boxes on the floor. I’d told hateful Edith that Horace said he always loved her. Always! What if he hadn’t meant Edith? That would certainly be understandable. She probably didn’t treat him much better than she did anyone else. What if he had meant Brown-Eyed Girl?

  On the other hand, maybe he did mean that he had always loved Edith. Just because I found her to be caustic didn’t mean she acted that way toward everyone. He had stayed with her all these years. Maybe he really did love her. Seemed doubtful, though.

  Had he meant for me to find Brown-Eyed Girl? Was I supposed to relay his message to her? He’d said Edith must never know. That made sense. Whether it was Edith whom he had always loved or not, he probably didn’t want her to realize he’d been in love with someone else.

  I set figures of an older couple in the village. Maybe Brown-Eyed Girl felt the same way and longed to see him. What if he died from the stab wound? They would have missed their chance to see each other one last time. I cupped my forehead in my hand. Why hadn’t I realized this sooner? I had to find Brown-Eyed Girl. But Edith must never know. Aargh. This wouldn’t be easy.

  I phoned the hospital before I went to bed, but they wouldn’t give me any information about Horace. During the night, I tossed and turned, imagining Moondoggie and his Brown-Eyed Girl. How would I ever find her? There were millions of brown-eyed women around Horace’s age.

  The sun shone in the morning, giving me fresh hope. Still dressed in my flannel nightshirt, I stumbled down the stairs, put on the kettle, and immediately placed a phone call to Wong, who confirmed that Horace had survived the night but remained in critical condition. I cracked the window to let in a little fresh air, then stirred sugar and milk into my morning tea.

  Nina tapped on the window of my kitchen door. She had dashed across the street wrapped in a fluffy lavender robe. I had barely opened the door when she demanded, “It’s Horace, isn’t it?”

  I played coy for just a moment longer in case she meant something else. “What is?”

  “Moondoggie. Horace is Moondoggie. It came to me in the middle of the night. You worked on his party yesterday. No one at the party would just hand you that note to carry around. No, no, no. It was Horace!”

  She beamed at me and poured herself a mug of tea. “We have to go see him. I wonder if he can speak.”

  I gazed down at her feet and giggled. “What are those?”

  “Christmas slippers. They’re reindeer heads. Aren’t they fun?”

  Outside someone screamed in terror.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dear Sophie,

  My son will be on leave from the military for Christmas, so my husband wants to decorate the house from top to bottom. I’m scared of the electric bill. Which lights use the least electricity?

  Proud Mom in Lightsville, Ohio

  Dear Proud Mom,

  Solar lights don’t use any electricity but will cost more to buy. There are also battery-operated lights, some of which operate on built-in timers! If Hubby really wants to go overboard with electric lights, LED lights are your best bet.

  Sophie

  If I hadn’t cracked a window earlier to let in some cool winter air, we might not have heard the scream at all. Mochie jumped onto the banquette and peered out the picture window.

  Nina and I rushed to the front door to look outside. A few houses down, I thought I saw something in the bushes. I grabbed a coat, and the two of us dodged traffic to cross the street. We ran like clowns in our slippers, the bells on Nina’s jingling all the way.

  Baxter Babineaux appeared to be stuck on his back in the grip of boxwood bushes. He called his wife’s name feebly. “Gwen? Help! Gwen?”

  A ladder pinned him down and strands of Christmas lights draped over him like a colorful web. “Are you okay?” I asked as Nina and I wrestled the ungainly wooden ladder to the ground.

  “Sophie! Nina! I was afraid my family wouldn’t hear me.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Trendy teen music blared right through the walls of their elegant historic town house.

  He tried to disengage himself from the strings of lights but only succeeded in creating bigger knots as they caught on one another.

  I did my best to lift them straight up, but they had twisted around his legs and torso. “Can you hold on to me? Let’s get you out of the bushes first, then we’ll tackle the lights.”

  I wedged my hands under his arms and pulled. Baxter had to be almost twice my weight and a good foot or more taller than my five feet. Nina tried pulling away the lights that entangled him. I tugged, and he rolled up to a sitting position. Branches cracked under him and broke as he kicked at them to free his legs. When he tried to stand up, he collapsed into a heap on the ground.

  Nina rushed to his front door and rang the bell. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “No! I’ll be quite fine. I just”—he pulled a strand of lights that tugged at another strand of lights—“need to catch my breath.”

  The sight of the staid and slightly pompous businessman sitting on the ground wrapped in Christmas lights was a little bit amusing. The next time he prattled on about the best meal he ever had in a tiny village in Tuscany, I would remember this moment. “Would you mind if I cut these lights off you? They’re caught on each other. How many strands are there?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Decorating for the Christmas contest?”

  “Gwen’s been pestering me about it. She has to have the best house on the block. Better than Natasha’s. And”—he grunted when he tried to stand and failed—“my brother is coming for the holidays. I guess I have a little Clark Griswold in me after all.”

  The homes in Old Town Alexandria were gorgeous. Many of them, like those on our street, had been built in the 1800s in typical colonial styles. But they were tall and hard to climb. Baxter’s house was three full stories with dormer windows on the third floor. Very difficult to cover in lights.

  “Have you heard anything about Horace? You work for him, don’t you?” Nina asked.

  Baxter scowled. “I haven’t heard beans about poor old Horace. There won’t be a business if he dies. His insufferable wife had the locks changed on the building. No one could go to work today.” He shook his head. “We have deals pending,” he whined. “Everyone has to work from home. It’s unbelievable.”

  The front door swung open. Gwen Babineaux seemed surprised to see Nina. A bottle blonde, Gwen had gone too long without a boost of color. Dark roots gave away her true brunette color in spite of the dark blond curls that cascaded around her shoulders. Tall and curvy, she prided herself on her cooking and baking skills, and the resulting extra pounds enhanced her voluptuousness. She tended to squint, hiding eyes the color of milk chocolate. With her long straight nose and thin lips, the squint sometimes gave the impression that she was being critical. She wore an oversized green flannel pajama top with the sleeves rolled up. Pictures of the Grinch and wrapped presents alternated all over it. “Baxter? What have you done now?”

  “Do you have scissors I could use to cut the lights off him?” I asked.

  She huffed, shook her head and went inside, returning in a minute with shears. She handed them to me and pulled twigs of boxwood from his thinning hair.

  “Honestly, Baxter is about the least handy man I’ve ever known.”

  “You’re the one who wants to win the contest,” he protested.

  She took a step back. “I don’t see a single light! What’s that on the roof?”

  “The
staple gun.”

  “You were on the roof?” she shrieked. She shook her head. “And I’m the one who goes to a shrink! Well, he’ll be hearing about this.”

  “How else am I supposed to put lights up there? I took the ladder upstairs and pushed it out the window. Then I set it up so I could string lights on the dormers, but when I stepped on it, a rung broke. I fell down, but managed to grab hold of the ladder. It slipped at first, but then it caught on something. If Bethany didn’t crank up her music so loud, you would have heard me yelling for help. Then the whole thing gave way.”

  I snipped faster. “If you fell all the way from the roof, you really should go to the emergency room. You’re incredibly lucky the bushes broke your fall. Did any branches stab you in the back?”

  Gwen appeared more irritated than concerned. “Looks like he was protected by this horrible old leather jacket that I keep trying to throw out. Good thing he wrapped up.”

  I cut a few more light strands. They finally dropped off Baxter and fell to the ground. Nina gathered them in a pile.

  “What kind of idiot takes a ladder up on the roof anyway?” muttered Gwen.

  Baxter sounded tired. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted lights on the dormer windows? Did you think I could just toss them up there?”

  Time to get out of their squabble. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Nina frowned at him. “Sophie is right. You ought to get checked out. That was a long fall.”

  “Nonsense. If he can argue with me, he’s fine.” Gwen sounded like a mom talking about a kid who’d taken a little tumble.

  “I guess we’ll head home, then.” Turning as I spoke, I stepped over the ladder. My father had owned one very much like it. Long and battered from use, various colors of paint had dripped on it over many years. My breath caught in my chest at the sight of the broken rung.

  It hadn’t worn out in the middle from years of use. It broke on the side where it connected to the ladder. I was no expert, but only part of the rung had splintered as wood should. The top portion of the break appeared almost smooth, as if it had been sawed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dear Sophie,

  I’m married to a Christmas nut. For years my husband has wanted a lighted Christmas wreath attached to the front of his car. I’d like to surprise him, but I don’t know where to start. Do they sell wreaths for cars?

  Santa’s Helper in Bow, Kentucky

  Dear Santa’s Helper,

  You can buy prewired artificial wreaths for cars at many automotive stores. If you would rather use a fresh wreath, then use a string of battery-powered lights, or twelve-volt LED lights that plug into the car’s cigarette lighter.

  Sophie

  My gaze drifted to Gwen, who fussed at Baxter. “I’m behind schedule now,” she complained. “There’s so much to do. My cookie swap is tomorrow. I don’t have time to coddle you. Can you walk? And Nina, don’t you dare bring store-bought cookies.”

  Their front door opened again. Katrina, the Babineauxs’ youngest daughter, viewed the scene. Six years old with an adorable mischievous face and pudgy cheeks, she ventured toward her parents, her auburn tresses unkempt as though no one had bothered to comb her hair. “Mom? Mom! What if I promise—”

  “Really, Kat. Can’t you see that I’m busy? The subject is closed. There will be no animals of any sort in my house. You’re allergic to them. End of story. Now get out of your father’s way.”

  Baxter stood up unsteadily.

  Kat watched with a crestfallen expression and whispered to no one, “But I’m not allergic.”

  A tinny rendition of “Jingle Bells” played on our street, distracting us. A faded red and white VW camper pulled up in front of the Babineauxs’ home. A lighted wreath covered most of the front under the window and between the headlights. Colorful lights twinkled around the windows. A sign on the side read No More Hungry Children.

  Gwen’s mouth hung open. “Noooo,” she breathed.

  A man leaped out of the driver’s seat and yelled, “Baxter, baby!” He held his fists over his head and did a little dance of joy, rotating his ample middle.

  Gwen hissed, “Please tell me that’s not your brother, Elvin.”

  Baxter probably didn’t hear her. With a joyous cry, he charged toward the dancing man and held him in a bear hug. The guy looked suspiciously like a younger, chubbier version of Baxter. I’d have bet on them being related.

  The passenger door opened and a long shapely leg emerged, followed by another. The owner wore her skirt too short, her makeup too heavy, and her sweater far too tight on the most ample bosom I could recall seeing.

  Gwen gasped.

  The woman’s curves made Gwen’s shapely figure seem positively scrawny.

  The woman smiled and issued a happy little scream. “Gwen!” She sauntered toward Gwen on high heels and held out her arms for a hug. “I feel like I’ve known you forever!”

  “Are you my Aunt Sugar?” asked Kat.

  The woman released Gwen and placed her palms on the sides of Kat’s face. “Aren’t you the prettiest little angel? You must be Kat! Can I have a hug?”

  Gwen pulled Kat to her, interrupting any attempt at a hug for Aunt Sugar. “Honey,” Gwen said to Kat, “why don’t you help your daddy and uncle park that, that bus?”

  Kat eagerly ran toward her father.

  Gwen hustled along behind her to Baxter and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “They cannot stay here. And move that embarrassingly unsightly vehicle to the alley this instant!”

  Undoubtedly having forgotten all about us, Gwen propelled Aunt Sugar into her home as though she meant to hide her, much like the bus.

  I rubbed my arms against the cold. A glance at Nina reminded me that we wore fuzzy slippers. But I paused anyway for one more moment. Now that they were inside, I dared to look at the ladder more closely. I nudged Nina. “Did you notice the ladder?”

  I knelt beside it and examined the break. The second rung had given way. I didn’t want to touch anything in case the police could get prints off it. The closer I looked, the more convinced I was that someone had weakened the rung by sawing it.

  Nina shrugged. “Old ladders break. I’m freezing. Let’s go.”

  Back home in the warmth of my kitchen, I closed the window, fed Mochie minced turkey in gravy, and pulled out bread for cinnamon- and nutmeg-laced French toast.

  “Seriously, Nina? You didn’t think it looked like someone cut that rung on the ladder?”

  “You’re turning into a buttinsky, Sophie, one of those people who report neighbors to the police. Before long, everyone will run from you, shrieking.”

  I whisked the eggs, added generous doses of cinnamon and nutmeg as well as a drop of vanilla, and dredged the bread through the mixture.

  Had I become overly suspicious of everyone and everything, seeing maliciousness everywhere? Maybe I was wrong and no one had tampered with the ladder. Then I’d have egg on my face and permanently alienate the entire Babineaux clan. What if I was right, though? I would never forgive myself if someone meant to harm Baxter, and I could have prevented it. I heated the griddle and added oil. “Baxter could have been killed!”

  “Okay, I’ll grant you that.” Nina poured water for hot tea. “But I hardly think Gwen is trying to knock him off. Not that I know them very well. Besides, we have something more important to do—find Brown-Eyed Girl for Horace!”

  I grinned at her eagerness and handed her a plate with French toast that I had topped with dots of butter and maple syrup. We took mugs of tea and settled at the table. “How are we ever going to find a girl Horace loved thirty or forty years ago? She could be anywhere.”

  Nina cut a piece of French toast and devoured it. “Mmm. So good. We could start by paying Horace a visit.”

  “Think they’ll let us in?”

  “Why not? We’re friends of h
is. Isn’t that what people do? Visit their friends in the hospital?”

  If Horace was conscious, maybe he could point us in the direction of Brown-Eyed Girl. I supposed Edith had the power to chase us away, but it was worth a try. I couldn’t think of another way to follow up for him, and Horace certainly couldn’t do it himself.

  After breakfast, Nina rushed home to change. I promised to meet her in fifteen minutes. I pulled on a white turtleneck sweater and my favorite stretchy jeans with an elastic waist. My boots were more functional than high fashion, but my jeans fit into them nicely, making me feel quite trendy. I added a warm black suede jacket, and an ultrasoft long white scarf that wrapped around my neck loosely twice and folded over itself in front. After a quick good-bye to Mochie, who lounged happily in the sunroom, I dashed out to my garage. Nina waited for me, wearing a beige corduroy skirt, boots, and a dark green jacket with a red and beige plaid muffler.

  I drove to the hospital, planning to stop to buy pine roping and wreaths on the way back.

  The woman at the front desk told us Horace’s room number without hesitation. The silence in the intensive care ward emphasized the dire condition of the patients housed there.

  A nurse was exiting the room when we arrived. “Are you here to see Horace?” There was no mistaking the hope in her expression. “I’m so glad.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Doesn’t he have any family?”

  “He has a wife,” blurted Nina.

  The nurse stared at her. “Does she know he’s here?”

  Nina and I exchanged a glance.

  “She hasn’t been to see him?” I asked.

  “No,” whispered the nurse. “Not a soul has come to visit.”

  She ushered us to the door of his room, chattering the whole way. “He’s not responding at the moment. We don’t know if he can hear us or not, but it’s important that you talk to him. Okay?”

  She watched as we turned our attention to Horace. He lay still and pale with his eyes closed, a mere ghost of himself.