The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

  “Joey! The children!”

  “I know! The children … I want to give them a good life … but do I have to do it like this? Covering up for my philandering boss, among a million other indignities? I’m quitting! I swear, I’m quitting Monday!”

  She kissed his cheek. “Then I’ll stand right beside you.”

  He gave her a hangdog look. “I shouldn’t have got us so far in over our heads with all these time payments.… How are we gonna make it, Linda?”

  “I’m going to take that job at the defense plant. Mom can look after the kids, when one of us isn’t here. It’s going to be fine.”

  “Aw, Linda. I love you so much. Merry Christmas, baby.”

  “Merry Christmas, darling.”

  They were embracing as the image blurred.

  Now the mirror filled with a tableau of homeless men in a soup kitchen. They were standing in line, receiving soup and bread and a hot meal. Serving them was the pretty young Salvation Army worker Stone made a pass at, at the office. In the background, voices of men at the mission were singing a carol: “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

  “We used to sing that song at home,” Stone told the soldier. “My ma would play the piano. Christ! What a heel.”

  “Who, Mr. Stone?”

  But the image on the mirror was different again: Katie Crockett and a plump older woman and a frail-looking older man …

  “Hey, kid,” Stone said, “it’s your sister!”

  “And my folks,” he said quietly.

  … sitting around the Christmas tree in Katie’s little apartment, opening presents and chatting happily. The doorbell rang, and Katie bounced up to answer it.

  But she didn’t come bouncing back.

  “It’s … it’s a telegram from the war department,” Katie said.

  “Oh no!” her mother said. “Not …”

  “It’s Ben, isn’t it?” her father said.

  They huddled together and read the telegram and tears streamed down their faces.

  “Well, that’s wrong, kid,” Stone said to Private Crockett. “You gotta go there tomorrow, and straighten that out. It’s breaking their hearts—they think you’re dead!”

  “Mr. Stone,” the boy said, removing his overseas cap, revealing the bullet hole in the center of his forehead, “I’m afraid they’re right.”

  “God …”

  “I have to go home now,” he said. “Tell sis I love her, would you, Mr. Stone? And the folks, too?”

  The young soldier, like another image blurring in the mirror, faded away.

  Alone in his bedroom again, Stone held his throbbing head in his hands. “Did somebody slip me a mickey or something?” Exhausted, he stumbled back to his bed, falling face first, and sleep, mercifully, descended.

  I’ll have a blue Christmas without you.…

  Stone’s eyes popped open; his bedroom was still dark. Someone was singing, a sort of hillbilly Bing Crosby, a strange voice, an earthy unearthly voice …

  … blue Christmas, that’s certain …

  The little round clock said 4 a.m.

  … decorations of white.…

  “What the hell is that racket? The radio?”

  “It’s me, sir,” the same voice said. Mellow, baritone, slurry.

  Stone hauled himself off the bed and beheld the strangest apparition of all: the man standing before him wore a white leather outfit with a cape, glittering with rhinestones. The (slightly overweight) man had longish jet black hair, an insolently handsome if puffy face, and heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Ah don’t mean to soun’ immodest, sir,” he said huskily, “but where ah come from they call me ‘the King.’ ”

  “Don’t tell me you’re Jesus Christ!” Stone said, eyes popping.

  “Not hardly, sir. Ah’m just a poor country boy. Right now, ah’d be about seven years old, sir.”

  “If you’re seven years old, I’d cut down on the Baby Ruths, if I was you.”

  The apparition in white moved toward him, a leather ghost; his shoes were strange, too—rhinestone-studded white cowboy boots. “Ah’m afraid you don’t understand, sir—ah’m the ghost of somebody who hasn’t grown up and lived yet, in your day … let alone died.”

  “You haven’t died yet, but you’re a ghost? A ghost in a white-leather zoot suit! This is the best one yet. This is my favorite so far.…”

  “See, ah was a very famous person, or ah’m goin’ to be. Ah really don’t mean to brag, but ah was bigger than the Beatles.”

  “You’re the biggest bug I ever saw, period, pal.”

  “Sir, ah abused my talent, and my body, so ah’m payin’ some dues. That’s how come ah got this gig.”

  “ ‘Gig’?”

  “Ah’m here to show you a little preview of comin’ attractions, sir. Somethin’ that’s gonna go down ’long about next Christmas … Christmas of ’43.…”

  The apparition struck a strange pose, as if turning his entire body into a pointing arrow, and suddenly both the King and Stone were in a small chapel, bedecked rather garishly with Christmas decorations that seemed un-church-like, somehow.

  “Where are we?”

  “Welcome to my world, sir. We’re a few years early to appreciate it, but someday, this is gonna be a real bright light city.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  The King grinned sideways. “We’re in Vegas, man!”

  Up at the front of the chapel, a man and woman faced a minister. Canned organ music was filtering in. A wedding ceremony was under way.

  Stone walked up to have a look.

  “I’ll be damned,” Stone said.

  “That’s what we’re tryin’ to prevent, sir.”

  “It’s Maggie and that creep Larry Turner! Getting hitched! Well, good riddance to both of ’em.…”

  “Maybe you oughta see how you’re spendin’ next Christmas …”

  And now Stone and the rhinestone ghost were in a jail cell. So was a haggard-looking, next year’s Stone—in white-and-black prison garb, seated on his cot, looking desperate. On a stool across from him was Sgt. Hank Ross.

  “Hank, you know I’m innocent!”

  “I believe you, Stoney. But the jury didn’t. That eye witness held up …”

  “He was bought and paid for!”

  “… and your gun turning out to be the murder weapon, well …”

  “You get an anonymous phone tip to match the slugs that killed Jake with my gun, a year later, and you don’t think that’s suspicious?”

  “The ballistics tests were positive.”

  “Some crooked cop must’ve switched the real bullets with some phonies shot from my gun! I told you, Hank, when I went to Miami on vacation, I left the gun in my desk drawer. Anybody coulda …”

  “Old news, Stoney.”

  “You gotta believe me.…”

  “I do. But with your appeal turned down …”

  “What about the governor?”

  “The papers want your ass, and the governor wants votes. You know how it works.”

  “Yeah, Hank. I know how it works, all right.…”

  “Stoney, better put things right between you and your maker.” Ross sighed, heavily. “ ’Cause tomorrow about now … you’re gonna be meetin’ him.”

  Ross patted his friend on the shoulder, called for the guard, and was soon gone. Stone stood and clung onto the bars of his cell as a forlorn harmonica played “Come All Ye Faithful.”

  “Death row?” Stone said to the King. “Next Christmas, I’m on death row?”

  “Sir, ah’m afraid that’s right. And ah think we’re gonna have to be movin’ on.…”

  And they were back in the apartment.

  “I have no idea who the hell you are,” Stone said, “but I owe you. Of all the visions I’ve seen tonight, yours are the ones that brought it all home to me.”

  “Thank you vurry much,” the King said.

  Stone glanced away, but when he turned back, his
visitor had left the building.

  Almost dizzy, Stone fell back onto the bed, head whirling; sleep descended.…

  When he awakened, it was almost noon. He felt re-born. He showered and shaved, whistling “Joy to the World.” As he got dressed, he slung on his shoulder-holstered revolver, removing the gun and checking its cylinder.

  “Jeez, Sadie,” Stone said. “What kinda girl are you? Loaded on Christmas …”

  Chuckling, he tucked the gun in its holster, then frowned and had a closer look at the .38, studying its handle.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said to himself. Then he smiled knowingly. “… Or maybe not.”

  He slipped the gun back in its hand-tooled shoulder holster, tossed on his topcoat. Then, as an afterthought, he went to his wall safe and counted out five thousand dollars in C notes, and folded the wad in his pocket.

  When Stone knocked at Eddie’s apartment, there was no answer. Was he too late? He yelled: “Eddie—it’s Stone! I got your cash. All five grand of it!”

  Finally Eddie peeked out; he was a little bruised up from the rough handling Stone had given him last night. “What is this—a gag?”

  “No. Lemme in.”

  In the little apartment—strewn with old issues of Racing News, dirty clothes, and take-out dinner cartons—Stone counted the cash out to a stunned Eddie.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a Christmas present, you little weasel.”

  “Why …?”

  “You’re my partner’s brother. I had a responsibility to help you out. But this is it … this’ll bail you out today, and don’t ask me for no more bail-outs in the future, got it? When the goons come, pay ’em off. And if you wanna lose your gambling habit, I might find some legwork for you to do, at the office. But otherwise, you’re on your own.”

  “I don’t get it. Why help me, after I tried to blackmail you …?”

  “Oh, well, I’ll break your arms if you try that again.”

  “Now, that sounds like the old Stoney.”

  “No—the old Stoney woulda killed you. Eddie—you said your brother promised to ‘take care of’ you, if anything happened to him. You seemed real sure of that.…”

  Eddie nodded emphatically. “He told me I was on his insurance policy—fifty percent was supposed to go to me, but somehow that witch wound up with all of it!”

  Before long, Stone was knocking at the penthouse apartment door of the widow Marley.

  Maggie tried not to betray her discomfort at seeing Stone. “Why, Richard,” she said, raising her voice, “what a lovely Christmas surpri—”

  But he pushed past her, before Larry Turner could find a hiding place. Turner was caught by the fireplace, where no stockings were hung.

  “Merry Christmas, Larry,” Stone said. “I got a present for ya …”

  Stone pulled the .38 out from under his shoulder and pointed it at the trembling Turner, who wore the silk smoking jacket Stone had seen in the vision in the mirror last night.

  “Actually, it’s a present you gave me,” Stone said. “My best friend—my best girl—is Sadie. My gun. Kind of a sad commentary, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Stone … just don’t point that thing at me.…”

  “Funny thing is, this isn’t Sadie. Imagine—me goin’ around with the wrong dame for over a year, and not knowin’ it!”

  Maggie said, “Richard, please put that gun away—”

  “Sweetheart, would you mind standin’ over there by your boy friend? I honestly don’t think you were in on this, but I’m not takin’ any chances.”

  She started to say something, and Stone said, “Move!” and, with the .38, waved her over by Turner.

  Stone continued: “Sometime last year, Larry … I don’t know when exactly, just that it had to be before Christmas Eve … you stole my Sadie, and substituted a similar gun. Trouble is, Sadie has a little chip out of the handle … tiny, but it’s there, only it’s not there on this gun.”

  “Why in hell would I do that?” Turner asked.

  “Because you wanted to use my gun to kill Jake with. Which you did.”

  “Kill Jake! Why would I …”

  “Because you and Maggie are an item. A secret item, but an item. You fixed her insurance policy so that all those double-indemnity dollars went to her, even though Jake intended his no-good brother get half. Jake considered you a friend—that’s why his hands were in his pockets, and his gun under his coat, when you got up close to him and sent him those thirty-eight caliber Christmas greetings.”

  “With your gun? If any of this were true, I’d have given that gun to the police, long ago.”

  “Not necessarily. You’re an insurance man … using my gun was like takin’ out a policy. Any time it looked like suspicion was headed your way, or even Maggie’s, you could switch guns again and make a nice little anonymous call.”

  Maggie was watching Turner, eyes wide, horror growing. “Is this true? Did you kill Jake?”

  “It’s nonsense,” Turner told her dismissively.

  “Well, then,” she said bitterly, “what was that gun you had me put in my wall safe? For my ‘protection,’ you said!”

  “Shut up,” he said.

  “Now I know what I want for Christmas,” Stone said. “Maggie, open the safe.”

  She went to an oil painting of herself, removed it, and revealed the round safe, which she opened.

  “Stand aside, sweetheart,” Stone said, “and let him get the gun out.”

  Turner, sweating, licked his lips and reached in and grabbed the gun, wheeled, fired, dove behind the nearby couch. When Turner peeked around to fire again at Stone, the detective had already dropped to the floor. Stone returned fire, his slug piercing a plump couch cushion. Turner popped up again, and Stone nailed him through the shoulder.

  Turner yelped and fell, his dropped gun spinning away harmlessly on the marble floor.

  Stone stood over Turner, who looked up in anger and anguish, holding onto his shot-up shoulder. “You wanted me to try to shoot it out with you!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause it was all theory till you tried to shoot me. Now it’ll hold up with the cops and in court.”

  “You bastard, Stone … why don’t you just do it? Why don’t you just shoot me and be the hell done with it?”

  “I don’t think so. First of all, I like the idea of you spendin’ next Christmas on death row. Second, you’re not worth goin’ to hell over.”

  Stone phoned Sgt. Ross. “Yeah, I know you’re at home, Hank—but I got another present for ya—all gift-wrapped.…”

  He hung up, then found himself facing a slyly smiling Maggie.

  “No hard feelings?” she asked.

  “Naw. We were both louses. Both running around on each other.”

  Maggie was looking at him seductively; running a finger up and down his arm. “You were so sexy shooting it out like that … I don’t think I was ever more attracted to you.…”

  He just laughed, shook his head, pushed her gently aside.

  “I would rather go to hell,” he said.

  Later, with Turner turned over to Ross, Stone stopped at Joey Ernest’s house out in the north suburbs.

  “Mr. Stone—what are you …?”

  “I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, kid. And tell you my New Year’s resolution is to dump the divorce racket.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. There’s some retail credit action we can get … it won’t pay the big bucks, but we’ll be able to look at ourselves in the mirror.”

  Joey’s face lighted up. “You don’t know what this means to me, Mr. Stone!”

  “I think maybe I do. Incidentally, Mrs. Marley and me are kaput. No more covering up for your dirty boss.”

  “Mr. Stone … come in and say hello to the family. We haven’t sat down to dinner yet. Please join us!”

  “I’d love to say hi, but I can’t stay long. I
have another engagement.”

  Finally, he knocked at the door of Katie’s little apartment.

  “Why … Richard!” Her beaming face told him that certain news hadn’t yet reached her.

  “Can a guy change his mind? And his ways? I’d love to have Christmas with you and your folks.”

  She slipped her arm in his and ushered him in. “Oh, they’ll be so thrilled to meet you! You’ve made me so happy, Richard …”

  “I just wanted to be with you today,” he said, “and maybe sometime, before New Year’s, we could drive over to DeKalb and see my Uncle Bob and Aunt Helen.”

  “That would be lovely!” she said, as she walked him into the living room with its sparkling Christmas tree. Her mother and father rose from the couch with smiles.

  It would be a blue Christmas for this family, when the doorbell rang, as it would all too soon; but when it did, Stone at least wanted to be with them.

  With Katie.

  And when they would eventually go to the young soldier’s grave, to say a prayer and lay a wreath, Stone would do the same for his late friend and partner.

  THE CAROL SINGERS

  Josephine Bell

  ONE OF THE FOUNDERS OF THE (BRITISH) CRIME WRITERS’ Association and its chairwoman from 1959 to 1960, Doris Bell Collier Ball took the pseudonym Josephine Bell largely because of Sherlock Holmes. It has been widely reported that Arthur Conan Doyle based many of the characteristics of his great detective on his teacher at the University of Edinburgh, Dr. Joseph Bell. Since the author was also a physician, she particularly liked the symmetry of using Dr. Bell’s name as the inspiration for the one that would appear on forty-five of her own works. “The Carol Singers” was first published in Murder Under the Mistletoe, edited by Cynthia Manson (New York, Signet, 1992).

  The Carol Singers

  JOSEPHINE BELL

  OLD MRS. FAIRLANDS STEPPED carefully off the low chair she had pulled close to the fireplace. She was very conscious of her eighty-one years every time she performed these mild acrobatics. Conscious of them and determined to have no humiliating, potentially dangerous mishap. But obstinate, in her persistent routine of dusting her own mantelpiece, where a great many, too many photographs and small ornaments daily gathered a film of greasy London dust.