Christmas Sweets

by Joanne Fluke

  “Round about now,” she said, checking her watch, “I was supposed to be picking up Scotty. We were going to drive to Vegas and get married in one of those corny Elvis chapels. The best laid plans, huh?”

  Another slug of champagne.

  I looked over and saw that about half of the bottle was gone. Gigi was well on her way to being snockered. I needed to hurry and get in some questions while she was still lucid.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened to Scotty,” I tsked. “Such a tragedy.”

  Of course what I really wanted to tell her was that she was better off without him, that he was a sleazebag of the highest order, and that he’d only have made her life miserable in the end.

  But of course I said none of this.

  Instead I just murmured, “I know how unhappy you must be. And I’m sure, more than anyone, you’d like to see the killer brought to justice.”

  She nodded in agreement, picking at the foil on the neck of the champagne bottle.

  “So I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the murder.”

  “Go ahead. Shoot. Corky tells me you’re some kind of detective.”

  “Part-time, semi-professional.”

  “Who woulda thunk it?” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  I get that a lot. For some strange reason, most people tend to underestimate the investigative skills of a woman in elastic-waist pants and a Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt.

  “Like I told the police,” Gigi said, “I didn’t see a thing that day. I was too busy trying to calm down the kids, what with the Christmas tree falling and the sprinklers going off.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t see anybody approach Scotty at the time he was killed?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” she said, a note of doubt creeping into her voice.

  “Think back to the scene. Try to remember anyone, anyone at all, going near Scotty’s chair.”

  “Okay.”

  She leaned back against the sofa, closing her eyes to concentrate. I waited for her to speak, but she said nothing. At first, I thought she was lost in thought. Until I heard her start to snore.

  Oh, hell! She’d passed out.

  A fat lot of good this interview was getting me. I got to question her for a whole thirty-two seconds.

  I was just about to get up and leave when I glanced down and saw the spine of a book peeking out from under one of Gigi’s sofa cushions—as if it had been shoved there hastily before she’d answered the door.

  I reached over and began to slowly ease it out.

  At one point my heart lurched as I saw her eyelids flutter. But thankfully she kept on snoring.

  At last I’d pulled the book free, and I now saw that it was a high school yearbook.

  I flipped the pages until I came to the H’s, looking for Gigi’s picture.

  I blinked in disbelief when I found it. There she was, listed as Virginia Harris, a chubby girl with clunky dark-rimmed glasses. A far cry from the elfin Gigi of Santa Land. But there was no doubt about it. Underneath all those extra pounds, that chubby girl scowling out at the camera was indeed Gigi.

  Talk about your amazing transformations.

  I continued to flip the pages until I saw something that made me stop dead in my tracks. There under the class officers, voted “Most Handsome,” was a picture of Scotty. A younger version of the same handsome, cocksure Scotty who had driven everybody crazy in Santa Land.

  So he and Gigi had gone to high school together.

  Had they known each other? Had they been friends?

  I sincerely doubted it. First, because Scotty didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would have been friends with a chubby, unattractive girl in high school.

  And mainly because Gigi had slashed a big X across his photo.

  What’s more, she’d crossed out the word “Handsome” from his “Most Handsome” caption, and written “Loathsome” in its place.

  Clearly Gigi had hated Scotty’s guts back then.

  Had she held on to that hate all these years and taken it out on him with a Christmas tree ornament?

  But that was impossible.

  After all, she was going to marry the guy. Wasn’t she?

  Suddenly from the depths of my reverie I heard a snort. I looked up and saw that Gigi was awake and staring at her yearbook clenched in my hands.

  “I see you found my yearbook,” she said. “A treasured memento of my golden high school years.”

  Her voice fairly dripped with sarcasm.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I defaced Scotty’s photo.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Would you believe I hated him back in high school but fell madly in love with him when we met again in Santa Land?”

  “No, frankly, I wouldn’t.”

  “Good for you. Go straight to the head of the class.” She stopped to take another swig of champagne. “You want the truth, Jaine? I hated Scotty then. I hate Scotty now. I’ll always hate Scotty.”

  “Then why on earth were you going to marry him?”

  “Oh, but I wasn’t. I was going to do to him what he did to me back in high school. Back then, I was a fat pimply senior and he was a golden boy on the track team. I didn’t think he even knew I was alive. But then one day when I was sitting in the cafeteria—alone, of course—he came and sat next to me. He told me that he’d seen me in a couple of classes and thought I had really pretty eyes. Then he said he’d just broken up with his girlfriend and was wondering if I’d like to go to the senior prom with him. I was foolish enough to think he actually meant it. I didn’t know it was just a joke, a crazy prank he’d thought up with his stupid buddies.

  “I ran out and spent every penny in my savings account on a prom dress. My parents were so excited for me; at last their unpopular daughter had a boyfriend! They couldn’t wait to meet him. He said he’d pick me up at seven. Seven came and went. So did eight. And nine. By ten o’clock I got into my pajamas and cried myself to sleep.

  “I later found out he’d gone to the prom with his girlfriend, that he’d never broken up with her. Every time he saw me after that, he’d snicker, ‘Wanna go to the prom?’

  “God, I wanted to kill him. Then, all these years later, we wound up working together at Santa Land. He didn’t recognize me, of course. I’d lost all that weight. My face had cleared up. And I’d started calling myself Gigi. So he had no idea who I was.

  “But I remembered him, all right. A guy that awful, you never forget. I wanted to puke when he started coming on to me. I wanted to kick him in the groin and tell him exactly what I thought of him. But then I had a better idea. I’d do to him what he did to me. I made him fall in love with me. Lots of guys do, you know.”

  I believed her. The new improved Gigi was one hot cookie.

  “True,” she said, “I had to let him touch me.” She gave a tiny shiver of disgust. “It made me sick, but it was worth it. Before long he asked me to marry him. He even went and bought me this silly dress. All this lace and tulle. So romantic. If he only knew how much I detested him.

  “Like I said, I was supposed to pick him up this morning and drive him to Vegas for our wedding. But I was never going to show. I was going to keep him waiting hour after hour, just like he kept me waiting all those years ago. I wanted him to feel what it was like to have his heart broken. Oh, that was going to be so much fun.

  “But then somebody killed him and spoiled everything. Scotty died thinking I actually loved him.”

  She shook her head ruefully and slugged down the last of her champagne.

  “I should’ve kicked him in the groin when I had the chance,” she sighed. “Oh, well. Gotta look on the bright side. At least he won’t be around to insult any more fat women.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said, getting up on shaky feet, “I’m going to pass out in my bed where it’s nice and comfy. Let yourself out, will you?”

  * * *

  I walked past the volleyball bobbing in Gigi’s tiny pool
, my mind buzzing with the story she had just told me. Not for one second did I doubt that Scotty had played that awful trick on her in high school. And not for one second did I doubt that Gigi had been out for revenge. Maybe all she planned at first was to stand him up at the altar.

  But who’s to say she didn’t change her mind and stab him in the heart with a Christmas tree ornament instead?

  Just something to think about between Christmas cookies.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back home, I found my answering machine blinking. My heart did a flip flop when I pressed the Play button and heard Jason Nicoletti’s voice.

  Hi, Jaine. Jason here. Just calling to remind you about my holiday party on Tuesday. Really looking forward to re-connecting. See you then!

  In the sturm und drang of Scotty’s murder I’d forgotten all about the party. But now Jason and his crooked smile came roaring back into my consciousness.

  He was interested in reconnecting. With moi! All too exciting for words.

  I hurried to my bedroom where I spent the next hour or so trying on potential outfits. After piling my bed high with clothes, I came to the perfectly logical conclusion that I had nothing to wear and raced over to Nordstrom where I found a divine Eileen Fisher outfit—hip-slimming black velvet elastic waist pants and matching black beaded sweater.

  Even on sale, it was way too rich for my anemic budget, but I bought it anyway—vowing not to buy another thing for myself till after Labor Day at the earliest. Not one thing. Except maybe a fabulous Very Berry lipstick in Cosmetics. And a darling pair of chandelier earrings on sale in Costume Jewelry.

  I headed home, exhilarated from the hunt. Nothing gets a gal’s endorphins flowing like black velvet and dangly earrings.

  My good mood came to a screeching halt, however, when I picked up my mail from where my mailman had tossed it on my front step, just in case there were any burglars in the area who needed to know I was out shopping.

  There among the bills and flyers was a particularly galling invoice from Ernie, the Cat Whisperer. Would you believe he was charging me $100 for our photo session? A hundred buckeroos—and he hadn’t snapped a single picture of Prozac!

  I was on the phone in a flash.

  “Picture Perfect Photo Studio. Edna speaking,” Ernie’s receptionist answered.

  “This is Jaine Austen calling.”

  “Oh, yes. The lady with the crazy cat.”

  I opted to take the high road, and let that slip by.

  “I believe your billing department has made a mistake, Edna. I just got a bill for $100.”

  “That was no mistake,” Edna informed me.

  “But Ernie didn’t take a single picture.”

  “I’m sorry, but we booked an hour of studio time for you. And that’s one hundred dollars.”

  “That’s outrageous!” I fumed. “Simply outrageous. I demand to speak with Ernie.”

  “I’m afraid he’s busy right now.”

  “Have him call me back as soon as possible,” I said in my most authoritative voice.

  Needless to say, I didn’t hear a peep from Ernie that day. Or the next. So on Monday when I got back to work, I decided to pay him a visit in person.

  * * *

  I strode into the Cat Whisperer’s studio in full tilt Tough Gal mode. Which wasn’t all that easy considering I was wearing my elf suit at the time. Let’s just say that a gal in a pointy green hat and curly-toed slippers does not exactly scream “I am woman; hear me roar.”

  “May I help you, Ms. Austen?” asked Edna, gazing up at me from behind the reception counter.

  “I need to speak with Ernie about this,” I said, waving my invoice in her face. “Now!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said icily, “but he can’t be disturbed.”

  That’s what she thought. I wasn’t about to be put on hold for one moment longer.

  Seething with righteous indignation, I started for the curtain that separated the reception area from the photography studio. As I did, Edna sprang out from behind the counter.

  Whoa. When I met Edna the day of Prozac’s photo shoot, she seemed like an ordinary middle-aged woman, the kind you see squeezing cantaloupes in the produce section. But now, as she came out from behind her reception counter, I realized she was a rather intimidating gal. In fact, if I’d met her in a dark alley, I would’ve sworn she was a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers.

  Yes, along with her I My Cat pin and Easy Spirit Walkers, she had quite an impressive set of muscles on display.

  But if you think for one minute that I was going to be the least bit intimidated by a mere show of brute force—you’re absolutely right.

  “Guess I’ll come back later,” I said, me and my curly-toed slippers skedaddling out the door with lightning speed.

  Okay, so I’ve got to work on my Tough Gal act.

  * * *

  After several hours hoisting kids on Santa’s lap, I took a break from my elf duties and headed back to Ernie’s studio.

  It was after six and I was hoping maybe Edna had left for the day, but no, there she was, still on guard, just waiting to tackle interlopers.

  How on earth was I going to get past her into Ernie’s inner sanctum?

  Then I had an idea. A rather clever one if I do say so myself.

  I put in a call to Lance in Newport.

  Luckily he deigned to pick up his cell phone.

  “Lance, you’ve got to do me a favor. Call the Picture Perfect Photo Studio in L.A. and keep the receptionist on the line as long as possible.”

  “Can’t it wait, Jaine?” he whined. “I’m in the middle of a very important Happy Hour. Martinis are only three bucks.”

  “Lance!”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll call.”

  I waited impatiently outside Ernie’s studio as Lance tore himself away from his martinis to make the call. Finally I saw Edna pick up the phone. Which was my cue to march on over.

  “Yes, of course,” I heard her say as I approached the entrance. “Mr. DeVito photographs events. What sort of event are you planning?”

  I scooted over the threshold.

  “Your cat is getting married? To the poodle next door?”

  Oh, for crying out loud. Couldn’t he have thought up something more believable than that?

  But for some reason, the gargoyle was buying it.

  “Yes, I’ll be happy to take your credit card to reserve the date.”

  Once I saw her writing what I was certain was Lance’s bogus credit card number, I strode inside and sailed past her with a jolly wave.

  I could see she was tempted to leave the phone, but the lure of a big booking was simply too great to resist. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she allowed me to slip past the curtain into Ernie’s studio. Which was empty at the time.

  Then I looked around and saw the door to what I assumed was an office in the back where Ernie was probably hard at work overcharging other innocent customers.

  I stormed across the room and was just about to barge in when I heard voices coming from inside.

  “Oh, Ernie. I’m so sorry I ever broke up with you.”

  Wait. I knew that voice. It was Molly.

  “I must’ve been crazy to fall for a bum like Scotty,” she was saying. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Of course, cara mia,” Ernie crooned in reply. “It wasn’t your fault. Scotty had you under his spell. But I knew somehow, some way I’d win you back.”

  Yikes. Molly had mentioned something about an old boyfriend. But I never dreamed it was Ernie, the Cat Whisperer! Was it possible Ernie had decided to win back his old love by getting rid of his competition—permanently?

  My head was spinning with the idea of the Cat Whisperer as the killer—not to mention Molly as a femme fatale—when I looked around and for the first time I noticed a Christmas tree Ernie had set up in the corner of his studio—a plump, artificial affair, studded with tinsel and gold balls.

  I almost gasped when I saw it.

 
Not because of the tinsels. Or the gold balls.

  But because of the dozen or so snowflake ornaments hanging from its branches.

  Good heavens. It was the exact same kind of ornament that had killed Scotty!

  Had Ernie looked out his shop the day of the murder and, seeing the pandemonium in Santa Land, pocketed a snowflake from his own tree to plunge into Scotty’s heart?

  Maybe the murder weapon didn’t come from the tree in Santa Land, but from right here in the Cat Whisperer’s studio!

  My musings were interrupted just then by Edna, charging in and yelling, “Exactly what do you think you’re doing, missy?”

  Before I got a chance to answer, the lovebirds came out of Ernie’s office to see what the ruckus was about.

  “She slipped right by me,” Edna sputtered, “just as I was booking another cat-poodle wedding.”

  They’d actually done this cat-poodle wedding thing before??

  Only in L.A.

  “That’s all right, Edna,” Ernie assured her. Then he turned to me with a suave smile. “How may I help you, Ms. Austen?”

  “For starters, you can tell me if you knocked off Scotty with one of your snowflake ornaments.”

  Of course I didn’t really ask him that. But oh, how I wanted to.

  Instead I launched into an indignant complaint about my bill, how a hundred dollars was a bit much for what had amounted to only about ten minutes of his time.

  All the while I was yakking, I couldn’t help staring at his hands. For such a slim guy, he had the hands of a dockworker. How easy it would have been for those hands to have plunged a sharp metal snowflake into Scotty’s chest.

  Undoubtedly trying to show Molly what a good sport he was, Ernie agreed to charge me only twenty-five bucks, and I headed back to Santa Land with a seventy-five dollar savings—and a hot new murder suspect.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was lying in bed that night, Prozac sprawled across my chest, watching Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Well, Prozac was watching (she has a thing for Guy Fieri). I was busy thinking about my murder suspects, wondering which one of them could have plunged that snowflake into Scotty’s heart.

  Was it Molly, his scorned lover? She certainly had the strength, what with her black belt in karate. And there were those scratches on her arm, possible evidence that Scotty had put up a fight as she stabbed him to death.