Mistletoe Mysteries

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “What was he expecting for Christmas?” Lev asked carefully. “A football game, maybe? Ray guns?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said. “He was in such a bad mood after the argument he had with his father, when he announced that there was no such person as Santa Claus … I told Ben not to take it so seriously, that sooner or later, kids find out the truth. They learn it on the street, don’t they?”

  “I suppose they do.”

  “Only last year, Michael put out milk and cookies for Santa. This year he refused. I mean, he wouldn’t even try to humor us, the way some kids do. Ben got so upset, he couldn’t sleep that night. Like I said, that man really loved Christmas.”

  “Mrs. Munsey,” Lev said, “would you happen to have a picture of your husband?”

  “It’s funny you ask that,” she said. “That’s one thing I put on my Christmas list every year, a camera, but I never get one. I mean, we just don’t have any family pictures. Ben hates to have his picture taken …”

  “Then maybe you can describe him for me.”

  Mrs. Munsey described him.

  Ten minutes later, Lev was at the front door, and the woman remembered to ask him the purpose of his visit.

  “Just routine,” Lev said.

  He promised to be in touch and asked her to call him either at headquarters or at home if there was any word from her errant spouse.

  He didn’t expect to hear from her.

  Lev could have returned to headquarters to make his report. Ab Peterson, who liked gossip, would have enjoyed it. Sam Reddy would have been disappointed at missing out on a juicy case. Both reactions might have been satisfying, but Lev needed to talk to Elly first.

  At home, he found her on the kitchen telephone, saying:

  “Oh, about every fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “What every fifteen minutes?” he asked anxiously.

  “I’m telling Fawn Cohen how to baste a turkey.”

  “Oh.”

  Then he told her about his day. Her eyes and mouth described three perfect Os when she realized his implication.

  “Are you really sure, Lev?”

  “The physical descriptions fit. The character descriptions fit. Even the job descriptions matched. Barry Methune owned a small surgical supply company in Dayton. Ben Munsey owned an entirely different surgical supply company, also in Dayton. Both served the same customers with different products.”

  “You mean he just … split his life in two?”

  “He had to, in order to maintain two households. He never worked Christmas; he let somebody else service the accounts. He went through all the holiday preliminaries in both houses, but he actually spent one Christmas Day on Holly Road, one Christmas Day on Skyblue Lane … The man loved Christmas so much, he had to celebrate two of them every year.”

  “But what happened this year? Why did he disappear?”

  “He was obviously strained to the breaking point. He was getting absentminded. He was mixing up his addresses, his kids, his Christmas gifts. He sent the girls’ gifts to his son, his son’s gifts to the girls. He just couldn’t handle it anymore.”

  “So he ran away from both of his lives.”

  “And now we have a stronger reason to look for the guy. He’s committed a crime. Bigamy.”

  “Lev Walters,” Elly said, “you’re a good detective.”

  “Thanks,” he said smugly.

  “However,” Elly said, “you didn’t detect that I was lying. Fawn Cohen never cooked a turkey in her life. I was talking to Dr. Ramirez.”

  Lev didn’t remember the next half hour. But somehow, he got Elly’s bag together, got her into his car, and managed to get her to the hospital just one hour before he became the father of John Alexander Walters.

  When he saw his wife again she was sweaty but beautiful, looking like she had just run the marathon and won.

  “I’m glad about one thing,” he said. “I’m glad Alex wasn’t born on New Year’s Eve. He would have grown up thinking every party was for him.”

  “Have you seen him yet?”

  “Yes,” Lev said. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “Liar. He looks like a hundred-year-old Pueblo Indian. I was thinking of complaining to the stork.” When Lev didn’t answer, his gaze wandering off to the middle distance, she tugged at his wrist. “Hey, did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “I lost you for a minute. What were you thinking about?”

  “The stork,” Lev said. “The way the stork delivers babies. And now I’m thinking of something else.”

  It was late in the day when he returned to the Methune house. He dreaded this visit more than he had dreaded the phone calls he had made earlier.

  “Have you found him yet?” Pola Methune said icily.

  “No,” Lev said. “We haven’t found your husband, Mrs. Methune. But I have an idea about where he is.”

  “Tell me! Just give me time to buy a shotgun!”

  “Remember what you said about his disappearance? That he just seemed to vanish in the middle of the night?”

  “He probably went to see his other wife.”

  “No,” Lev said. “He was confused. About which wife he meant to be with, about which gifts to give which children. And he may have been confused about something else. About where he intended to play Santa, convincingly enough to restore the faith of a cynical six-year-old …”

  “Neither of my kids are six years old.”

  “No,” Lev said soberly. “But Michael Munsey is. And maybe your husband decided to put on a convincing performance for him. The only thing is, he may have attempted that performance in the wrong house.”

  He went to the Methune fireplace and pulled aside the fire-screen and andirons. He ducked his head and stepped into the inner hearth. He was hoping he was wrong, but he wasn’t. When he reached his hand upward, into the hollow of a too-narrow chimney, he felt the soles of two rubber boots.

  EDWARD D. HOCH

  THE TOUCH OF KOLYADA

  Since we’re in a holiday mood, we might say that Edward D. Hoch has much the same relationship with the mystery short story as Guy Lombardo had with New Year’s Eve. He’s written something like 800 of them; ever since the late 1950 they’ve been appearing in all the American crime magazines, in collections, and in television productions. Edward D. Hoch also has a big following in many foreign countries, so it’s not surprising that we find an exotic note even in this Christmas story. And since the festive season is a time for nostalgia, he’s brought back the first character he ever created to play Lord of Misrule. Simon Ark has by now been involved in many a strange adventure, but this is the first time he’s ever had to deal with the Russian equivalent of Santa Claus.

  My old friend Simon Ark had been living at a university near the northern tip of Manhattan, not far from the Cloisters, pursuing his study of medieval legends. I had seen him occasionally through the year, and in a burst of preholiday goodwill my wife Shelly suggested I invite him to our suburban home for Christmas dinner. When I phoned him with the invitation three days before the holiday, he thanked me but hesitated about accepting it.

  “My friend, an unusual situation has developed up here among some of my academic friends. I am attempting to resolve it, and I trust I can do so by Christmas Day.”

  Something in his tone of voice make me ask, “Have you gotten yourself involved in another mystery, Simon?”

  “I suppose you might call it a mystery of sorts, though the events thus far suggest a mystery of good rather than evil.”

  “Now you’ve sparked my curiosity.”

  “Do you have time to journey up here?”

  “Not today. I have a meeting with one of our authors this afternoon. But tomorrow is only the office Christmas party, and I’d like an excuse to miss that.”

  “Then come, by all means! I will meet you at the university library at noon.”

  And so on the following day, the eve of Christmas Eve, I took the subway up the West Si
de of Manhattan to the end of the line at 207th Street. The university was across the street from Inwood Hill Park, and as I walked briskly across campus in the thirty-degree weather I wondered if the city might have its first white Christmas in years. Up here the ground was barely covered with a half inch of snow, but more was predicted for Christmas Eve.

  Simon Ark was waiting for me just inside the big brass doors of the library building. He seemed a bit thinner than the last time I’d seen him, and his dark clothes gave him an almost gaunt appearance. I could remember a huskier Simon, back when I’d first known him more than thirty years ago. Yet the tiny lines of age on his face had not deepened with the passing years. One might easily have taken his age for a vigorous seventy at most. It was only in rare moments, among those who knew him best, that he was likely to repeat his claim of being some two thousand years old. No one really believed it, of course. Nor did we believe he’d been a Coptic priest in Egypt shortly after the time of Christ. Still, there were times when I imagined I could detect all the knowledge of the world behind those glistening dark eyes.

  “It is good to see you again,” Simon said, greeting me with an unaccustomed handshake. “I have just been studying up on Russian folklore.”

  “Oh? Are you planning a journey there?”

  “No. There is a program of Russian Studies here at the university. Many of the faculty members are Russian emigrés who came here with their families during the past twenty years. I have become friendly with a number of them. The little mystery I mentioned on the telephone concerns them.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The library was built on a hill, with a cafeteria on the lower level. We went down there, bought coffee and sandwiches, and found a table by a sunny window looking out on the running track at the bottom of the hill. There were a number of noonday joggers on it, unfazed by the cold.

  “Have you ever heard of the elf maiden Kolyada?” Simon asked when we’d unwrapped our sandwiches.

  “Is this more Russian folklore?”

  “In a way. Russian children sing songs of Kolyada each Christmas Eve, and she is said to ride a sleigh from house to house, delivering gifts much as Santa Claus does in Western countries. She is very beautiful and always wears a luxurious white robe and hood. During the past week some of the children here have reported seeing Kolyada. She has even entered their homes.”

  “A pleasant tale. The newspapers would probably like a female version of Santa, especially a beautiful one.”

  “She has been leaving gifts for the children.”

  “How nice,” I murmured.

  “Why? Why is she doing it?”

  “You’re not supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth, Simon. That’s some sort of folk saying too, I think.”

  “There was another visit last evening. Will you come with me while I speak to the children?”

  “Of course, if you want me to. I came all the way up here, after all.”

  We finished our sandwiches and coffee, and I accompanied Simon past the administration buildings to a street on the other end of the campus. There a row of large old houses lined the street, each of them tastefully painted and landscaped. “These are faculty homes,” Simon explained. “Down there farther are some fraternity houses.”

  “It becomes quite a closed community with the faculty living on campus,” I commented.

  “The houses were made available to emigré families who arrived here without a place to live. Some have moved on to other homes, but six of the houses are still occupied by Russian scholars on the faculty here. These are the ones that have received visits from Kolyada.”

  “How many?”

  “The first four when I spoke to you yesterday. The fifth house last evening. Jeff and Lenore Rodgers live there.”

  It was at the fifth house that we turned in, and were met at the front door by a pretty young woman with brown hair worn in a long braid. “Simon Ark—it was good of you to call. Come in, please.”

  Simon introduced me and we entered the big old house. I was surprised by the bright colors and modern decor inside, so different from the outward appearance of the place. “The university is trying to get this declared a landmark district,” Lenore Rodgers explained. “They won’t allow us to change the exterior, so we compensate inside. These houses used to be dorms and it took a lot of work to make them livable for one family again. Of course we’ve still got two shower rooms upstairs, and a restaurant-size refrigerator and freezer in the kitchen, but at least it’s a bit more homey in the family room and bedrooms. Our two daughters like it, and that’s important.”

  “You’re not Russian,” I said, stating the obvious. “I thought—”

  She laughed. “We’re the exceptions on the street. Jeff is an assistant professor in Russian Studies, and this house was available so they offered it to us. His starting salary wasn’t all that great and we jumped at the chance.”

  “Are your daughters here?” Simon asked.

  “I’ll call them. They’re dying to talk about Kolyada to anyone who’ll listen.”

  Cynthia and Clarice proved to be two lovely little girls, aged four and five, who captured my heart immediately. “We saw Kolyada,” the five-year-old Cynthia told me. “She was a beautiful lady in a long white cape and she touched me on the cheek.”

  “And she gave us gifts!” Clarice chimed in. “Candy and dolls!”

  “Did you see her, too?” Simon Ark asked their mother.

  “No, but I heard the excitement. They were down here playing and I’d gone up to make the beds. I work in the administration office during the day and a couple of students take turns sitting with them. So the housework gets done in the evenings. I heard this uproar, but it didn’t seem too unusual for this pair. When I heard them calling to me I came down right away, but by that time she was gone. They were each clutching a doll and a little box of Christmas candy.”

  Simon patted the children on the head as he examined the dolls. “Made in Taiwan, but that’s not too unusual these days. And the candy is a popular brand. Tell me, Cynthia, did Kolyada ring the doorbell?”

  The older girl nodded. “At the back. I answered it. She came in the kitchen in her white robe. Her sleigh must have been parked out back but I didn’t see it.”

  Simon Ark smiled benevolently. “Suppose we have a look now, during the daytime.” We followed him out through the spacious kitchen to the back door. The thin layer of snow had melted in spots and the rest was trampled by the footprints of running children, but we could see no sign of sleigh runners.

  “I have to be getting back to work,” Lenore Rodgers said with a touch of regret. “The administration office is closed tomorrow for Christmas Eve, but we work a full day today. I just came home to get lunch for the girls. Their afternoon sitter will be here any minute.”

  “It must be expensive for you,” I said.

  “They keep promising day care for the staff’s children, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

  We said good-bye to the girls and walked around the house to the street. The man next door was just coming home and Simon hailed him. “Mr. Trevitz, do you have a moment?”

  Trevitz was a small man in his sixties with thick glasses and a little beard that strengthened the foreign appearance of his features. “Simon Ark! It is good to see you again! How is your research going?”

  “As well as could be expected.”

  Trevitz turned to me and I caught the little glint of humor in his eyes. “Mr. Ark is the only one I know presently conducting research into the hoof structure of unicorns.”

  “Really?”

  Simon was more interested in the matter at hand. “Did you know your neighbor was visited by Kolyada last evening?”

  Professor Trevitz wagged his head. “Mrs. Rodgers told me about it this morning. I am the last house in line, though I doubt if she will visit here. My daughter is married and long gone from home.”

  “The Vladimers have no children at home, but they were visited on the second
night. Kolyada left a basket of fruit and candy on their back porch.”

  The balding professor snorted. “No doubt it’s all a publicity stunt for some new shop in the area. I’m too busy to concern myself with such things. If she comes, she comes.”

  As we walked out to the street I asked, “Does he live there alone?”

  Simon Ark nodded. “His wife died in an auto accident last year, on Christmas morning. He was driving the car and the accident severely depressed him for several months. He’s getting back to his old self now, though—crusty and cynical as ever!”

  “I gather these visits by the white-robed woman have occurred on each of the last five nights.”

  “That is correct. Navogard, Vladimer, Batovrin, Tolstoy, and Rodgers. It stands to reason she will visit the Trevitz home tonight. I would like your help in intercepting her.”

  “But she’s committed no crime!” I insisted.

  “Not yet.”

  I explained to Shelly on the telephone that Simon had tentatively accepted our invitation to Christmas dinner, but it was necessary for me to help him finish some research work first. That was more or less true, and it explained my absence from home that evening as I huddled in the cold with Simon at the rear of Professor Trevitz’s house, awaiting the arrival of the elf maiden Kolyada.

  “What am I supposed to do if she tries to get away?” I asked.

  “I just want to know who she is and why she’s doing this. I suspect—” He broke off and gripped my arm. “There!”

  I saw her in the same instant. She’d emerged from the shadows and moved into the light from Trevitz’s windows. She was short, dressed in a white-hooded robe that all but hid her features. In one gloved hand she carried a basket that appeared to contain candy and fruit. Before we could act she was on the back porch. The kitchen door was unlocked and she entered without hesitation. We waited a few moments but she didn’t emerge.