by Mona Marple
Antoinette snivels her way off stage, followed by Tabitha. Only little Jessie remains, still in the bed. I’m sure I can hear a soft snoring from the stage. No wonder Jessie’s done such an authentic job of portraying the role of child, asleep.
“With Antoinette devastated, and Tabitha unable to help, is there any hope for little Jessie’s belief in Santa?”
A few moments pass, and the audience begin to stir. Is that it? What a way to end? Eventually, people realise it’s the interval, and file out of the hall for toilet breaks. Some drop coins into the charity bucket that Tabitha Reed holds near the ticket booth. I spy a fair few disappearing outdoors in a bid for freedom.
Twenty minutes later, people are asked to return to their seats, and the rows are nowhere near as full as before. I curse my group for not escaping when we had the chance, but I know Connie won’t leave until she’s seen Nick perform. The stage is empty apart from Lionel. Even Jessie has got up out of bed.
Ho ho ho comes over the tannoy then, an electrical recording that blends into the sound of sleigh bells overhead. Several people look up as if expecting to see reindeers flying above them. Trust me, I think, this production does not have that kind of budget.
“Ooh, here comes Nick I bet!” Connie exclaims. “Here he is!”
I’ve heard about Nick’s Santa Claus outfit. How it’s almost as if Nick travelled to the North Pole to see Father Christmas and left with one of his spare outfits. But I’ve never seen it before. It’s obvious immediately, as soon as Santa appears on stage, how good quality it is. From the boots, to the heavy trousers and jacket, the black gloves and the beard so full it’s impossible to see the mere human underneath it.
“Wow,” I say. “Impressive.”
Santa remains at the side of the stage, until Lionel lets out an awkward laugh.
“But look who is here!” he exclaims, and something about his delivery tells me he’s off-script. Has Nick forgotten his lines?
Without saying a word, Santa raises his left arm, pointing towards Lionel, whose skin blanches. With the blackness of his glove, it takes a moment to realise that Santa is holding something. His fingers twitch awkwardly, and time seems to slow down as I realise he is pointing a gun towards Lionel.
A woman near the front row lets out a scream, and both Patton and Taylor get to their feet, but the trigger’s pulled before they reach the stage. The sound appears to ricochet off the walls, the bang echoing and vibrating in my eardrum as I instinctively close my eyes.
When I open them, I try not to look towards the stage but can’t help myself. Santa has gone, vanished, and Lionel Wright lies motionless in a dark pool of blood.
4
Connie
The town hall is a scene of absolute chaos. Taylor and Patton had sprung into action even before the trigger was pulled, and they’re down at the stage taking charge. I heard Taylor’s authoritative work voice call out for someone, anyone, to call 911, and at least twenty people grabbed cell phones and started calling in the emergency.
“Why the hell would your friend do this?” Sage whispers across to me, her voice low and urgent.
“He wouldn’t!” I argue, even though I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Santa had disappeared from the stage before people realised what had happened. Patton had checked behind the stage but found no sign of him. The sound of sleigh bells continues to play out overhead, the noise mingling with the soft sobs and panicked phone calls people are making.
“I need to go,” I say.
Sage pulls on the sleeve of my coat. “What do you mean you need to go? You’re staying here.”
“No, Sage, I have to go and find Nick.”
“Absolutely not,” Sage says. My sister can be so stubborn.
“I need to do this. You’re not stopping me, okay? Just, just, buy me some time?”
Sage lets out her giving-in sigh. “Fine. It’s a bad idea, though.”
“And I’ll take full responsibility if it goes wrong. I love you,” I say, because as much as I know Nick would never hurt someone, I also know everything suggests that I’m wrong. Maybe, just maybe, I’m walking towards my death.
I don’t give Sage a chance to reply, because I know time is of the essence, and I don’t want to get emotional. I manage to sneak out the front door, which is unlocked, and into the frigid night air. The town is silent. Dimitri Matu has gone. His homemade sign remains on the ground but the ink has smudged. There’s an icing sugar dusting of snow across the grass and gravel.
I pull my coat around me tighter, wishing I’d taken it off while I was indoors, although I suspect the chill is partly the shock of what I’ve just witnessed.
Nick lives just a few streets away, in a modern bungalow that’s tastefully decorated. It’s as minimalist as you’d expect of a house that’s only lived in a few weeks each year. I rarely visit. Usually, when Nick’s in town, he swings by my place unannounced, full of compliments for me and invitations out. He doesn’t like this place, he confided in me once. Doesn’t like how quiet it is. Hates sleeping in an empty house. I’d half-jokingly suggested he just sell up and move into my spare room for the odd occasions when he was around, and he’d seemed to seriously consider the offer. I’d have been glad of the company, to be honest. Nick has such a magnetic charm about him, as if life’s a breeze and anything that is a challenge just goes right over his head.
I reach his street and for a moment struggle to remember which bungalow is his. They’re all pretty much identical. I get my bearings and realise why I was unsure; despite what he told me, his house has decorations strung up outside it. I was looking for a house in darkness. Sitting on his roof is a life-sized Santa Claus, a huge mock hessian sack by his side. A nod to Nick’s reputation as the true Father Christmas of Mystic Springs, I imagine. It’s cute, but there’s no way Nick climbed a ladder and installed that himself. Perhaps his neighbours set it up as a joke when he was in Mexico.
I take a deep breath and walk down the path, then peer in the front window. The house is in darkness. I can’t see a thing. I try the front door handle, even though I have the spare key in case of emergencies when Nick’s out of town. In all the years I’ve had the key, there’s never been an emergency, and since Nick has no plants or pets, I just leave the place alone. He has a state-of-the-art video doorbell that patches through to his cell phone, so he can see whoever rings the bell and speak to them over his phone, telling cold callers he’s not interested and asking the mail man to leave parcels in the mail box, where he assures them it will be safe as he’s just bathing the baby – even while he’s actually chatting from some glamorous location and has never been near a baby in his life.
The handle opens, as it usually does when Nick’s home. The man has no concern for his safety. I take another breath and try to ignore the hammering in my chest. Who on God’s green earth knows what I’m about to walk into? Is it possible that all these years I’ve had no idea who Nick really is?
I slip inside as quietly as I can and push the door so it remains ajar. In case I need to make a quick exit. Not that I have any pretence that I could outrun a bullet. I gulp. Nick would never hurt me. I know that. I think I know that.
I stand perfectly still and listen to the house breathe and creak around me as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Nick’s travel bag stands upright in the hall, from his last trip or his next trip who knows. Finally, I feel confident that I can see in the darkness, and begin to pad forward down the hall.
To the left is the living room, the room I glanced in from the window. It’s empty, I can see straight away because there’s no clutter. Settee, check. That’s literally all the room holds. I continue on, knowing Nick’s bedroom is to the right. As I reach that doorway, I can barely make myself glance inside. The room is small, just big enough for a king-sized bed and a bedside table on either side. The wardrobes are built in to the wall that connects to the hallway. I can see quickly that the room is empty, but at the base of the bed is a door for the en suite. To check that room,
I’ll have to walk into Nick’s bedroom, something I’ve never done before, even though it’s the only way to reach the only toilet in the house. That design flaw allowed Nick to scoop this place up for a bargain price. The en suite being the only toilet in the house matters not for a single man who’s rarely at home.
I enter the bedroom and hear a low groan. The hot water system, I tell myself. The bed looks as though it’s been made by a professional; corners tucked in, bed covers ironed smooth. It hits me that the way Nick lives might seem suspicious to the police as they launch their investigation. Is it natural for a person to have so few material possessions? Or has Nick got it right while the rest of the world are the crazy ones, getting into credit card debt to buy things they won’t even like in six months’ time?
I take the chance to open the wardrobe doors, not sure what I’m looking for. The hangers are mainly empty. The few that contain clothes have a whole outfit hanging from them; each pair of jeans matched with the perfect top.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I curse under my breath. Why didn’t I think to check it’s on silent? I stand frozen still, listening to see if the noise stirs any movement in the house, but everything remains silent. I dare a glance at the phone. A text message, from Taylor. WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?? ARE YOU OK??
I type out a quick reply, because my silence would only make him come after me to check I’m okay. Needed some air. I’m ok. Stay safe x
I take the chance to flick my phone onto silent mode and return it to my pocket, then close the wardrobe door and look towards the en suite. The door is closed, of course. No way would Nick sleep near an open toilet door.
A growing sense of foreboding washes over me as I approach the door. I place my cheek up towards the door, so my ear is almost touching the wood. Silence.
The coast is clear, I think. It has to be. There’s no way a murderer would return home after killing someone. Not that Nick is a murderer, of course. Ugh. I’m utterly confused.
The door creaks a little as I push it open. The toilet comes in to view, seat down, and then the tub. The fact that every visitor would have to pee in his en suite wasn’t a deal breaker for Nick, but a lack of a bath tub would have been. The first thing he did after buying the place was rip out the regular bath and have a claw-footed copper tub fitted. He sent me photos of it. It looks dingy and old-fashioned to me.
I peer my head around to the far side of the bathroom and see him. Nick. He’s there.
“Hey,” I force myself to say, thinking that casual is the way to go. He doesn’t reply. He’s on the floor, huddled by the radiator. Is the reality of what he’s done sinking in? It’s like he hasn’t even heard me. People can go into shock, can’t they, after doing an awful thing? “Nick?”
He still shows no sign of hearing me and so I reach across and brave turning on the lights. As soon as I do, I gasp.
Nick’s slumped on the floor, in just his boxers. A trickle of dry blood has poured from a wound on the top of his head, settling above his eyebrow. Blood matted to hair. I force my eyes away from it and see that he’s handcuffed to the radiator. The whole of his left arm is red raw, burns scarring his beautiful skin.
I begin to cry, and then I pull out my phone. “Taylor, you need to get here. I’ve found Nick. He’s unconscious, he’s really badly burnt.”
I dial 911 next, asking for an ambulance to be sent out. The dispatcher is annoyed with me at first, thinking I’m yet another person calling in help for Lionel Wright. When she realises I have a whole other emergency to report, she switches it up a gear and promises to get help to us within minutes.
I stroke Nick’s face, wondering if my touch might stir him, and then I wonder if I’m messing with evidence by doing that.
I sit still for a moment, then notice a scrap of paper next to Nick’s frame. I pick it up. It’s the audition schedule for the Christmas show. I frown at it. I thought Nick didn’t have a copy of this?
The heat coming from the radiator is stifling, so I reach over and switch it off. Closer to his arm, I can see that Nick’s skin has begun to blister and some blisters have popped with the heat, leaving a trail of translucent liquid oozing down his body and onto the floor.
“You poor baby,” I murmur, frozen to the spot. Adrenaline has got me this far, and I’m fresh out of ideas. All I can think is that I hope help arrives soon.
5
Sage
We’re the last ones at the town hall. The first responders arrived on scene within minutes, the screeching sirens travelling across town alerting us to their arrival a full two minutes before they burst in the doors. Lionel Wright was quickly assessed as being dead, covered with a blanket, and removed on a stretcher.
Nobody else was injured, physically at least. A ripple-effect seemed to have passed through the front rows, where people sat shivering while the paramedics did their work. A small boy stared straight ahead, not even blinking, his hand splattered with Lionel’s blood. The town hall became a triage area for shock and devastation. Nobody professed to cry for Lionel in particular, but for a murder committed on home soil at this magical time of year.
“Nobody should witness a murder the week before Christmas,” one woman had muttered, annoyed with Lionel for having the bad grace to go and get killed in December. As if there was a time when people should witness murder.
Now, the crowds have all left. The ones worst affected by shock were bundled into ambulances, the rest were dismissed to return home or wherever took their fancy. Screamin’ Beans Coffee House would be open late. No doubt some moved across there to dissect what had just happened. Word would spread. Soon, there wouldn’t be a soul in Mystic Springs unaware of Lionel Wright’s murder.
Patton stares at the stage, as he’s been doing for the last ten minutes. I know better than to interrupt him. This is how he works. How he worked, when he was alive. I follow his gaze and wonder what he’s seeing. Or what he’s trying to see. It’s clear where Lionel Wright lay, even though his body has been moved. The blood has seeped into the old wood of the stage so that the visual reminder of him isn’t the bright red gore of horror movies, but a murky brown stain that, if it wasn’t so large and human shaped, could just as easily be explained as being a spilt mug of coffee.
“Who wanted him dead?” Patton asks, but I think he’s talking to himself. I don’t answer. He breaks his gaze at the stage and looks at me, waiting for a reply.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t think there’s much love lost for him, though.”
“Every time one of his shows runs, there’s an awful review of it in the paper,” a voice comes from behind us. We both turn and find Tabitha Reed standing by the door. “They pick apart every actor’s mistakes, but always flatter the story itself. As if it’s a great production let down by bad actors.”
“Oh,” I say, unsure why this woman thinks now is an appropriate time to share this piece of useless information.
“I always reckoned he wrote it, ya know,” she continues with a wry smile.
“You were in the show tonight,” Patton says, just recognising her. She’s awfully plain. Her posture stiffens at the question.
“I just left my bag in the back. I’ll just grab it,” she says, then drops her head and begins to walk towards us, in the direction of the stage.
“You’re not going back there,” Patton says, authoritative.
“I have to, my keys are in there,” Tabitha says. Her cheeks flush with the confrontation.
“Has somebody got a spare?” Patton asks.
“Well, no,” Tabitha says. “And it’s not just mine, it’s my customers’.”
“Customers?” I repeat. “What do you do?”
Tabitha lets out a tiny sigh. “I don’t fraternise with spirits. I’m not here for small talk, I just need to get my things, so if I can just, erm, exc...”
“No can do,” Patton insists. “This is a crime scene. You shouldn’t even be in here. There’s tape out there, didn’t you see it?”
Tabitha’s cheeks are crimson now. “I’m not sure why you’re being difficult. It’s not as if you’re in charge. Let me get my bag, please.”
“Your bag’s perfectly safe,” Patton says. “This place will be locked up and guarded. You just need to find a way back into your house.”
“It’s not my house I’m worried about. I have a duty to my customers. Now, please, just let me through.” Tabitha says. Her beady eyes won’t meet mine or Patton’s and we’re at an impasse. Whatever courage she had mustered has clearly been used by her sneaking in here. Now she’s been caught, and by spirits at that, she’s out of steam.
“Are you a cleaner?” I ask. I can’t think why else she’d have other people’s keys in her bag. Dog walker, perhaps.
“What of it if I am? It’s honest work,” she says, misunderstanding me entirely.
“I wasn’t suggesting…”
“Look, we need to wrap this up,” Patton says, but something in the set of his mouth softens. He’s always been a sucker for a damsel in distress. There’s no way he’s letting this woman leave without any way of getting back in her home safely, not with a murderer on the loose. “You shouldn’t be in here, but I get that you need your stuff. I’ll fetch it for you. What am I looking for?”
“It’s just a plain bag,” Tabitha says with a nervous shrug. Of course it is. I’d bet my life the woman has nothing in her wardrobe that isn’t plain. She’s about as invisible as my husband. My stomach churns at the thought of Bernard. I need to tell Patton about him. And soon.
Patton stares at the woman, waiting for more details. “I’m a guy, you’re gonna have to help me out a little!”
“Erm,” she says, fumbling her words, and then I notice the handbag over her shoulder. Black handbag disguised against her black coat.