by Kacey Gene
“I still don’t think we can throw out that maybe this man simply died and fell into his pudding. Sometimes a death is as simple as that,” Sharb says, closing the cabinet.
“He was boiled in this pudding,” Jennifer says, keeping her focus on Fred’s dead face and seeing that there are red marks under the side of his eye. They’re somewhat hidden by the crusted brown pudding, but the longer she looks at his face, the more red marks she sees. “Look at this,” she says to Jake, who squats down next to her.
“She’s right,” Jake says. “There are red marks on his face.” He motions for the police officers to come and take more photographs.
“Are you saying this man was murdered by pudding boil?” Sharb asks, with judgment coating each of his words.
“Did you check his chest?” Jennifer asks, ignoring Sharb. She doesn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that the pieces of this crime link and lock together in her mind like a trail, and she has to follow it.
“We didn’t want to touch the body until you got here,” Jake says, quietly. “But we did a visual scan and there’s nothing. No marks. No signs of struggle.”
“Check his chest.”
Jake first looks at Jefferson, who not only nods his head in approval but joins Jake on the floor. They duck walk so their heads are just under the table, and then they get on all fours to flash their lights up at the man’s chest. The other surrounding officers point their recording devices and cameras at this change in action. Sharb crosses his arms and shakes his head in annoyance.
The flashlights illuminate the shadows under the table.
“Nothing,” Jefferson says, but he gives it a few more seconds before he stands up. “No blood. No wounds. Nothing.”
“Like I said,” Sharb arrogantly adds.
“Maybe Sharb is right on this one. I mean, who are we to judge how much a man loves pudding?” Jefferson lightly asks. “And if he died just after making the pudding, then that would mean he fell into a hot bowl of pudding, and that would explain the red marks.”
“But his face,” Jake says, still crouching under the table. “His face doesn’t look right.”
“It’s in a bowl of pudding,” Sharb quips, but he takes a step back when Jefferson sends him a glare of warning.
“Look under his sweater,” Jennifer says, feeling her hands shake. She agrees with Jake, something here isn’t right. She can feel it.
Jefferson and Jake put on their gloves, and it takes their pristine focus to not jostle the body too much as they pull at the neck of Fred’s grey, loose-knit sweater. Luckily, it’s an old sweater, so the neck easily opens and Jake aims his flashlight down into the tunnel it makes.
“What is that?” Jake asks, his eyes growing big.
“Is that a…” Jefferson pauses as he reangles his flashlight, “a part of a plant?” he asks, equally confused and intrigued.
“It’s a sprig of holly,” Jennifer says, without even having to see what they’re looking at.
“Well, I’ll be...” Jefferson says, looking up at Jennifer proudly.
Sharb sees this look of admiration, and it causes his face to redden like a boiled beet.
“There’s no way a stick of holly, or whatever it’s called, killed this man. I mean look at that thing.” Sharb gestures to the small sprig, which the police team carefully holds between their tweezers and then place in an evidence bag.
“For once, I agree with Sharb,” Jennifer says, but somewhat absentmindedly. “It was made to look like the holly and pudding killed this man, but that’s not it.”
“We need to get the holly tested,” Sharb says.
“Already on it,” Jake says, and his eyes and fingers become occupied with his phone. He texts the lab with specific instructions about what tests to run on the holly and the pudding sample that are coming in.
Turning from the victim’s body, Jennifer scans the rest of the house, which consists of a small family room and two doors off of it, which Jennifer assumes are a bedroom and bathroom. She takes two steps down into the sunken family room and focuses on the back wall. It has an old stove fireplace, but even more importantly, it has an entire wall of books. And not just any books, but old books, collector’s items.
“May I?” Jennifer asks Jefferson as she feels herself being drawn to the bookshelf.
He gives her a nod and then turns to give instructions to the two police officers who are staring at the holly like it’s going to spontaneously come to life and break into a song and dance.
Jennifer starts on the right side of the bookshelf, the end of the alphabet, and she makes her way past first editions of Edith Wharton and cracked and dusty spines of John Steinbeck. Tracing the books with her eyes and then her finger, which floats in front of the books as she reads the authors’ names, she finally gets to the D’s.
There is a matching set of books, just as she suspected. They’re bound in a green leather, they have gold writing for the titles, and the pages, which she can see if she stands on her tiptoes, are thick and also edged in gold. These books are by Charles Dickens, and as she reads the titles from the end, starting with a Tale of Two Cities, she passes over Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, Little Dorrit, Hard Times, Great Expectations, David Copperfield, Bleak House, and it ends with Barnaby Rudge. But there’s one book missing, and that book is the answer to this crime.
Chapter Three
A Christmas Carol Clue
“A Christmas Carol?” Jake asks. “What do you mean A Christmas Carol is our answer?”
After the last police car pulls out of the Fred Gailey’s driveway, Jake puts Jennifer’s blue SmartCar into gear and heads toward her apartment. Now she’s glad that she kept this theory to herself at the crime scene. If Jake is skeptical, then Sharb would have torn her idea apart, and she’s not ready to have her theory shredded before she’s fully stitched it together. It’s exactly like her crochet projects -- at first they look like a big old mess of knots, and then suddenly, those knots become a stocking, a sweater, a basket, or a baby’s blanket that brings comfort for days to come. Her projects just need time and attention to become something, just like this theory.
“Did you not pay attention at all in eighth grade English?” Jennifer asks, but she can’t hide her smile when she looks over at Jake. She always makes him drive when she’s with him, not only so she can multitask, but also because she takes such pleasure in seeing his 6’3” body shoved into her tiny car.
“In Mrs. Bollegar’s class? No. You couldn’t pay me to stay awake in that class.”
“And you probably still got an A,” Jennifer says, looking at him with suspicious eyes.
Jake smiles a proud grin and says, “I sure did.”
That’s because Jake got A’s in all his classes; yet, he didn’t even like school. He couldn’t wait to graduate from high school and from college, and when he was done, he had no desire to ever return. Jennifer is the exact opposite. Even after she graduated, she put herself right back in the classroom, but this time as the teacher.
“Well, if you had paid attention, you’d know that this crime scene is an actual scene from A Christmas Carol.”
Jake looks at her skeptically. “I may not remember the book, but I watched the movie. The version with Scrooge McDuck. And I don’t remember a murder or a man with his face in pudding.”
“It’s not that exactly,” Jennifer says, scrolling through her phone and searching for the direct quote. “Here it is,” she says, having found the passage. “And I quote from the book: If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.
“It really says that?” Jakes asks, leaning over and eyeing the passage that scrolls across Jennifer’s phone.
“But why would someone reconstruct Scrooge’s words into a scene and then steal the book the words came from?” Jennifer asks out loud to herself.
“We don’t know that the book was stolen,�
� Jake says. He holds his finger in the air as a warning.
“Jake,” Jennifer says with a give-me-a-break look, “the man had almost every Dickens novel ever written, so it doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t have what is one of Dickens’ most famous novels. Plus, those books came in a set.”
“Okay, so what if A Christmas Carol wasn’t in the set he bought?” Jake retorts back. “And I don’t know a ton about books, but I know that the older things are, the more expensive they are. If A Christmas Carol is so famous then maybe Fred Gailey couldn’t afford an antique version of it.”
“Good point,” Jennifer says as her memory shifts back to Fred’s house. It was humble in every other way -- no expensive furnishings, small in size, decorated for function rather than style -- so by all visual accounts, Fred isn’t wealthy, or if he is, he definitely isn’t showy about it.
“Hey, did you get any--” but before Jennifer can get another word out, she lurches forward, almost hitting the windshield with her head.
Jake’s fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles pop up like gumdrops. Jennifer looks in front of them to see what they hit, but then she sees Jake’s eyes fixated on the rearview mirror. Jennifer whips her head around.
There’s a black car with tinted windows right on their tail, which for a SmartCar means it’s almost in their backseat. Jennifer wonders if that black car is going to keep pushing into them until it breaks through her back door, but the car slams on its brakes and falls feet and then yards behind them. But then, the black car’s engine rips into a roar, and it speeds straight down the road toward them.
“Jake, he’s coming back,” Jennifer yells, watching the car get closer and closer. “Jake,” she yells again, feeling her panic spike with every inch this black car closes between them. She imagines it all unfold -- the black car hits them from behind, they spin out of control, her car acrobatically flips until smashing into a tree, and the whole time she and Jake are flopping inside the car until...darkness.
She hates herself for it, but all she can imagine is the disappointed faces of her family. Not only will none of them get their handmade Christmas presents, which they are all expecting, but her death will put a damper on the holiday. Her mother will never forgive her for that.
Jennifer squeezes her eyes shut, readying herself for the impact that she knows will come in seconds, but rather than being thrust forward from behind, Jennifer smashes against her seat as Jake floors the gas pedal. With not much weight to carry, the SmartCar zips into action, making the possible killer-hit from the black car simply tap their bumper.
“Hold on,” Jake says, leaning into the steering wheel with his eyes hyper-focused. Jennifer turns her head to the back windshield and sees the black car fall back again, but this time it’s not speeding back up. It’s going in reverse.
“He’s reversing,” Jennifer says.
“Get the plates.”
Jennifer squints. She picks out a P, E, L, Z, N, K, L. “Pelznkle,” Jennifer says out loud, immediately second guessing the letters now that the car is even further in the distance. The P could be a B, making the plates “Belznkl.” She curses being almost thirty and now needing glasses to see far distances.
But, then, all of her vision jumps as her body bounces and bobs in her seat. Suddenly, she and her car are not only up on a sidewalk, but Jake is parking her car in someone’s yard -- right between the inflatable snow globe and the blow-up Santa lawn decorations.
With the reflexes of a stealthy cat, Jake quickly asks, “Are you okay?” to which Jennifer nods. But before she can ask the same of him, he’s unbuckled himself, unholstered his gun, and jumped out of the car. He takes off running straight for the black car, which Jennifer sees is now a spot in the distance.
But that doesn’t stop Jake, whose black boots echo against the sidewalk.
Rolling her already stiff neck, Jennifer gets out of the car, but she feels like she steps into a winter wonderland rather than a front yard. The Christmas carol “Let it Snow” is playing all around her, there is a snow machine blowing pieces of white confetti into the air -- as well as in her hair, in her mouth, and all over her grey coat -- and the house where her car is “parked” has every window dotted with a red-bowed wreath. The house itself is covered in white lights, and its bay window frames a gargantuan Christmas tree, which twinkles for everyone who looks in the window.
And then she sees the three children inside the house. They have their noses, hands, and eyes pressed against the glass of that bay window. Their mouths and eyes are open in awe at the car that’s parked on their lawn. They’re currently speechless, but Jennifer knows that will be short-lived.
Moving behind the car, Jennifer surveys the damage. Her bumper is dented, one of her back lights is cracked while the other one is completely shattered, and the blue paint on her car is scratched.
“Not terrible,” Jennifer says, rubbing her neck. She hears Jake’s footsteps as she looks closer at the damage to her car. Jake is out of breath when he gets to her, and his eyes are wide with worry.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, turning her around, checking her for wounds, and looking at the top of her head.
“Jake,” Jennifer says, brushing away his hands, which are fingering through her chestnut brown hair like a monkey grooming another monkey. “Jake,” she says again, finally getting his attention. “I’m totally okay. What about you?” she asks, but then she sees the small cut right above his eyebrow.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
Jake quickly feels where she’s looking, wipes the blood away and says, “I’m fine.”
“No. You’re bleeding,” Jennifer says. “Come on, I’ll drive you to my place and get you bandaged.”
“I can drive,” Jake says, instinctively. He always drives, and he doesn’t want that changing just because he almost got them killed in a car chase and is bleeding from the head.
“You need to call in the plates,” Jennifer says, knowing that refocusing Jake is the best way to get him to comply. “And I have a rule. No driving while bleeding.”
Jake doesn’t argue any further. The two of them walk back to her car, but just as they are about to get in, a very tense and very pursed voice says, “Excuse me. Do you want to tell me what you’re doing on my lawn?”
The owner of the house is standing between the herd of reindeer that are lined up on his front porch. The three children that had their faces pressed against the window earlier are now circled behind the man, trying to peer around his legs to see the action. The man’s arms are crossed, his face is uncompromising, and his warning of, “I”m going to call the police,” sparks an ironic smile from Jake.
“I’ll take care of this,” Jake says to Jennifer, realizing that this man can’t see his uniform thanks to the dark sky. “Go ahead and start the car,” he tells Jennifer, and she knows that he’ll talk his way out of this. Jake can talk his way out of everything and charm any and every person he meets. Except one.
My mother, Jennifer thinks, and the panic she felt when the black car was about to run them off the road is nothing compared to the fear she feels now. Jennifer frantically checks her watch.
6:11 PM.
Her mom will call her at exactly 6:30 PM, just as she does every night. And if there’s one person that no one makes wait, it’s Jennifer’s mother.
Chapter Four
Ring-a-Ding-Ding
Jake is at least five paces behind Jennifer, who attempts to move down her tan-carpeted hallway as silently as possible. She doesn’t want her neighbor, Mrs. Muscolino, coming out.
It’s not that she doesn’t like Mrs. Muscolino; it’s just that Mrs. Muscolino is always dialed to hyper-negative. She’s eighty-seven years old, with a hunched back, a cane for walking, and terrible cataracts in both eyes. Whenever she talks to Jennifer, it’s about the terrible state of the world, her latest ailment or pain, and how she doesn’t trust this or that person because they’re on their phones too much.
Jennifer listens, and she completely understands how hard it must be to see the world you used to know change so much. But then Mrs. Muscolino goes to a much darker place. A place where she pretends to ask Jennifer questions, but her questions are really more like judgments than anything else.
You’re still not married? Not even a boyfriend?
You wore that outfit around elementary school kids?
Another day without makeup, huh?
You’re cooking in again tonight?
Jennifer is convinced that even if she came home one day in a pristine outfit with a full face of tasteful make-up and a husband hanging off her arm (carrying Mrs. Muscolino’s favorite meal -- pesto pasta with parmesan) that Mrs. Muscolino would still find some fault in it. And the weirdest part is, Mrs. Muscolino lives with her sister, Tina, and her sister is the sweetest peach in the world. Jennifer loves running into Tina Muscolino, who at the age of eighty-one acts at least twenty years younger.
Then Jennifer hears it -- the ringing she was trying to beat.
“Shoot,” Jennifer says, sprinting down the hallway. Her phone rings a second time. She fumbles with her keys, but finally her door gives way and she throws herself on the counter and grabs the phone. “Hello? Mom? Hello?”
“Yes, dear. What is wrong? You sound frantic and out of breath.”
Jennifer’s mother is never frantic or out of breath. Everything she does is scheduled, controlled, perfectly calm, and if not, then someone else deals with it. Her mother does not do messy.
Jennifer takes a deep breath and swallows, even though her throat is completely dry.
“No. No. Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to get to the phone.”
Jennifer thinks about how much easier this would be if her mother would just call her cell phone, but her mother refuses to use “plebeian communication devices,” as she calls them. Her mother only uses the landline phone that’s in the study of her Chicago penthouse apartment. And, she only makes calls from 6:00 PM until 7:30 PM. Anyone who wants to talk with her, must abide by those hours -- all other hours of the day are reserved for her staff to take messages and for her to be phone free.