by Otto Penzler
I said, “Gee, Dad, that doesn’t make much sense. The Jewish people wouldn’t pick Christmas Day to do it, would they? It doesn’t mean anything to them, and it doesn’t mean anything to the Soviet Union, either. They’re officially atheist.”
Dad said, “You can’t reason that out to the Russians. Now, why don’t you turn in, because tomorrow may be a bad day all round, Christmas or not.”
Then he left, and he was out all Christmas Day, and it was pretty rotten. We didn’t even open any presents, just sat listening to the radio, which was tuned to an all-day news station.
Then at midnight, when Dad called and said nothing had happened, we breathed again, but I still forgot to open my presents.
That didn’t come till the morning of the twenty-sixth. We made that day Christmas. Dad had a day off, and Mom baked the turkey a day late. It wasn’t till after dinner that we talked about it again.
Mom said, “I suppose the person, whoever it was, couldn’t find any way of planting the bomb once the Department drew the security strings tight.”
Dad smiled, as though he appreciated Mom’s loyalty. He said, “I don’t think you can make security that tight, but what’s the difference? There was no bomb. Maybe it was a bluff. After all, it did disrupt the city a bit and it gave the Soviet people at the United Nations some sleepless nights, I bet. That might have been almost as good for the bomber as letting the bomb go off.”
I said, “If he couldn’t do it on Christmas Day, maybe he’ll do it another time. Maybe he just said Christmas to get everyone keyed up, and then, after they relax, he’ll—”
Dad gave me one of his little pushes on the side of my head. “You’re a cheerful one, Larry. No, I don’t think so. Real bombers value the sense of power. When they say something is going to happen at a certain time, it’s got to be that time or it’s no fun for them.”
I was still suspicious, but the days passed and there was no bombing, and the Department gradually got back to normal. The F.B.I. left, and even the Soviet people seemed to forget about it, according to Dad.
On January second the Christmas–New Year’s vacation was over and I went back to school, and we started rehearsing our Christmas pageant. We didn’t call it that, of course, because we’re not supposed to have religious celebrations at school, what with the separation of church and state. We just made an elaborate show out of the song, “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” which doesn’t have any religion to it—just presents.
There were twelve of us kids, each one singing a particular line every time it came up and then coming in all together on the “partridge in a pear tree.” I was number five, singing “Five gold rings” because I was still a boy soprano and I could hit that high note pretty nicely, if I do say so myself.
Some kids didn’t know why Christmas had twelve days, but I explained that on the twelfth day after Christmas, which was January sixth, the Three Wise Men arrived with gifts for the Christ child. Naturally, it was on January sixth that we put on the show in the auditorium, with as many parents there as wanted to come.
Dad got a few hours off and was sitting in the audience with Mom. I could see him getting set to hear his son’s clear high note for the last time because next year my voice changes or I know the reason why.
Did you ever get an idea in the middle of a stage show and have to continue, no matter what?
We were only on the second day, with its “two turtledoves,” when I thought, “Oh, my, it’s the thirteenth day of Christmas.” The whole world was shaking around me and I couldn’t do a thing but stay on the stage and sing about five gold rings.
I didn’t think they’d ever get to those “twelve drummers drumming.” It was like having itching powder on instead of underwear—I couldn’t stand still. Then, when the last note was out, while they were still applauding, I broke away, went jumping down the steps from the platform and up the aisle, calling, “Dad!”
He looked startled, but I grabbed him, and I think I was babbling so fast that he could hardly understand.
I said, “Dad, Christmas isn’t the same day everywhere. It could be one of the Soviet’s own people. They’re officially atheist, but maybe one of them is religious and he wants to place the bomb for that reason. Only he would be a member of the Russian Orthodox Church. They don’t go by our calendar.”
“What?” said Dad, looking as though he didn’t understand a word I was saying.
“It’s so, Dad. I read about it. The Russian Orthodox Church is still on the Julian Calendar, which the West gave up for the Gregorian Calendar centuries ago. The Julian Calendar is thirteen days behind ours. The Russian Orthodox Christmas is on their December twenty-fifth, which is our January seventh. It’s tomorrow.”
He didn’t believe me, just like that. He looked it up in the almanac, then he called up someone in the Department who was Russian Orthodox.
He was able to get the Department moving again. They talked to the Soviets, and once the Soviets stopped talking about Zionists and looked at themselves, they got the man. I don’t know what they did with him, but there was no bombing on the thirteenth day of Christmas, either.
The Department wanted to give me a new bicycle for Christmas, but I turned it down. I told them I was just doing my duty.
THE CHRISTMAS KITTEN
Ed Gorman
DO NOT EXPECT a cavity-inducing, sweet story about a cute little kitten in the manner of Lilian Jackson Braun or Rita Mae Brown; that simply isn’t the type of story the versatile and prolific Ed Gorman writes. While most of his work has been in the mystery genre, he has also written many other types of fiction, including horror (he was nominated for Bram Stoker Awards from the Horror Writers Association) and westerns (he won a Spur Award from the Western Writers of America). He also has been nominated for two Edgar Awards by the Mystery Writers of America, for Best Short Story for “Prisoners” in 1991 and (with others) Best Biographical/Critical Work for The Fine Art of Murder in 1994. He was also honored with MWA’s Ellery Queen Award in 2003, given primarily for his mystery fiction, his long editorship of Mystery Scene Magazine, and his many anthologies. “The Christmas Kitten” was first published in the January 1997 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
The Christmas Kitten
ED GORMAN
1.
“She in a good mood?” I said.
The lovely and elegant Pamela Forrest looked up at me as if I’d suggested that there really was a Santa Claus.
“Now why would she go and do a foolish thing like that, McCain?” She smiled.
“Oh, I guess because—”
“Because it’s the Christmas season, and most people are in good moods?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, not our Judge Whitney.”
“At least she’s consistent,” I said.
I had been summoned, as usual, from my law practice, where I’d been working the phones, trying to get my few clients to pay their bills. I had a 1951 Ford ragtop to support. And dreams of taking the beautiful Pamela Forrest to see the Platters concert when they were in Des Moines next month.
“You thought any more about the Platters concert?” I said.
“Oh, McCain, now why’d you have to go and bring that up?”
“I just thought—”
“You know how much I love the Platters. But I really don’t think it’s a good idea for the two of us to go out again.” She gave me a melancholy little smile. “Now I probably went and ruined your holidays and I’m sorry. You know I like you, Cody, it’s just—Stew.”
This was Christmas 1959 and I’d been trying since at least Christmas 1957 to get Pamela to go out with me. But we had a problem—while I loved Pamela, Pamela loved Stewart, and Stewart happened to be not only a former football star at the university but also the heir to the town’s third biggest fortune.
Her intercom buzzed. “Is he out there pestering you again, Pamela?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Tell him to get his
butt in here.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And call my cousin John and tell him I’ll be there around three this afternoon.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And remind me to pick up my dry cleaning.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And tell McCain to get his butt in here. Or did I already say that?”
“You already said that, Your Honor.”
I bade goodbye to the lovely and elegant Pamela Forrest and went in to meet my master.
“You know what he did this time?” Judge Eleanor Whitney said three seconds after I crossed her threshold.
The “he” could only refer to one person in the town of Black River Falls, Iowa. And that would be our esteemed chief of police, Cliff Sykes, Jr., who has this terrible habit of arresting people for murders they didn’t commit and giving Judge Whitney the pleasure of pointing out the error of his ways.
A little over a hundred years ago, Judge Whitney’s family dragged a lot of money out here from the East and founded this town. They pretty much ran it until World War II, a catastrophic event that helped make Cliff Sykes, Sr., a rich and powerful man in the local wartime construction business. Sykes, Sr., used his money to put his own members on the town council, just the way the Whitneys had always done. He also started to bribe and coerce the rest of the town into doing things his way. Judge Whitney saw him as a crude outlander, of course. Where her family was conversant with Verdi, Vermeer, and Tolstoy, the Sykes family took as cultural icons Ma and Pa Kettle and Francis the Talking Mule, the same characters I go to see at the drive-in whenever possible.
Anyway, the one bit of town management the Sykes family couldn’t get to was Judge Whitney’s court. Every time Cliff Sykes, Jr., arrested somebody for murder, the judge called me up and put me to work. In addition to being an attorney, I’m taking extension courses in criminology. The judge thinks this qualifies me as her very own staff private investigator, so whenever she wants something looked into, she calls me. And I’m glad she does. She’s my only source of steady income.
“He arrested my cousin John’s son, Rick. Charged him with murdering his girlfriend. That stupid ass.”
Now in a world of seventh-ton crime-solving geniuses, and lady owners of investigative firms who go two hundred pounds and are as bristly as barbed wire, Judge Eleanor Whitney is actually a small, trim, and very handsome woman. And she knows how to dress herself. Today she wore a brown suede blazer, a crisp button-down, white-collar shirt, and dark fitted slacks. Inside the open collar of the shirt was a green silk scarf that complemented the green of her eyes perfectly.
She was hiked on the edge of the desk, right next to an ample supply of rubber bands.
“Sit down, McCain.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“I said sit down. You know I hate it when you stand.”
I sat down.
“He didn’t do it,” I said.
“Exactly. He didn’t do it.”
“You know, one of these times you’re bound to be wrong. I mean, just by the odds, Sykes is bound to be right.”
Which is what I say every time she gives me an assignment.
“Well, he isn’t right this time.”
Which is what she says every time I say the thing about the odds.
“His girlfriend was Linda Palmer, I take it.”
“Right.”
“The one found in her apartment?”
She nodded.
“What’s Sykes’s evidence?”
“Three neighbors saw Rick running away from the apartment house the night before last.”
She launched one of her rubber bands at me, thumb and forefinger style, like a pistol. She likes to see if I’ll flinch when the rubber band comes within an eighth of an inch of my ear. I try never to give her that satisfaction.
“He examine Rick’s car and clothes?”
“You mean fibers and blood, things like that?”
“Yeah.”
She smirked. “You think Sykes would be smart enough to do something like that?”
“I guess you’ve got a point.”
She stood up and started to pace.
You’ll note that I am not permitted this luxury, standing and pacing, but for her it is fine. She is, after all, mistress of the universe.
“I just keep thinking of John. The poor guy. He’s a very good man.”
“I know.”
“And it’s going to be a pretty bleak Christmas without Rick there. I’ll have to invite him out to the house.”
Which was not an invitation I usually wanted. The judge kept a considerable number of rattlesnakes in glass cages on the first floor of her house. I was always waiting for one of them to get loose.
I stood up. “I’ll get right on it.” I couldn’t recall ever seeing the judge in such a pensive mood. Usually, when she’s going to war with Cliff Sykes, Jr., she’s positively ecstatic.
But when her cousin was involved, and first cousin at that, I supposed even Judge Whitney—a woman who had buried three husbands, and who frequently golfed with President Eisenhower when he was in the Midwest, and who had been ogled by Khrushchev when he visited a nearby Iowa farm—I supposed even Judge Whitney had her melancholy moments.
She came back to her desk, perched on the edge of it, loaded up another rubber band, and shot it at me.
“Your nerves are getting better, McCain,” she said. “You don’t twitch as much as you used to.”
“I’ll take that as an example of your Christmas cheer,” I said. “You noting that I don’t twitch as much as I used to, I mean.”
Then she glowered at me. “Nail his butt to the wall, McCain. My family’s honor is at stake here. Rick’s a hothead but he’s not a killer. He cares too much about the family name to soil it that way.”
Thus basking in the glow of Christmas spirit, not to mention a wee bit of patrician hubris, I took my leave of the handsome Judge Whitney.
2.
Red Ford ragtops can get a little cold around Christmas time. I had everything buttoned down but winter winds still whacked the car every few yards or so.
The city park was filled with snowmen and Christmas angels as Bing Crosby and Perry Como and Johnny Mathis sang holiday songs over the loudspeakers lining the merchant blocks. I could remember being a kid in the holiday concerts in the park. People stood there in the glow of Christmas-tree lights listening to us sing for a good hour. I always kept warm by staring at the girl I had a crush on that particular year. Even back then, I gravitated toward the ones who didn’t want me. I guess that’s why my favorite holiday song is “Blue Christmas” by Elvis. It’s really depressing, which gives it a certain honesty for romantics like myself.
I pulled in the drive of Linda Palmer’s apartment house. It was a box with two apartments up, two down. There was a gravel parking lot in the rear. The front door was hung with holly and a plastic bust of Santa Claus.
Inside, in the vestibule area with the mailboxes, I heard Patti Page singing a Christmas song, and I got sentimental about Pamela Forrest again. During one of the times that she’d given up on good old Stewart, she’d gone out with me a few times. The dates hadn’t meant much to her, but I looked back on them as the halcyon period of my entire life, when giants walked the earth and you could cut off slices of sunbeams and sell them as gold.
“Hi,” I said as soon as the music was turned down and the door opened up.
The young woman who answered the bell to the apartment opposite Linda Palmer’s was cute in a dungaree-doll sort of way—ponytail and Pat Boone sweatshirt and jeans rolled up to mid calf. “Hi.”
“My name’s McCain.”
“I’m Bobbi Thomas. Aren’t you Judge Whitney’s assistant?”
“Well, sort of.”
“So you’re here about—”
“Linda Palmer.”
“Poor Linda,” she said, and made a sad face. “It’s scary living here now. I mean, if it can happen to Linda—”
> She was about to finish her sentence when two things happened at once. A tiny calico kitten came charging out of her apartment between her legs, and a tall man in a gray uniform with DERBY CLEANERS sewn on his cap walked in and handed her a package wrapped in clear plastic. Inside was a shaggy gray throw rug and a shaggy white one and a shaggy fawn-colored one.
“Appreciate your business, miss,” the DERBY man said, and left.
I mostly watched the kitten. She was a sweetie. She walked straight over to the door facing Bobbi’s. The card in the slot still read LINDA PALMER.
“You mind picking her up and bringing her in? I just need to put this dry cleaning away.”
Ten minutes later, the three of us sat in her living room. I say three because the kitten, who’d been introduced to me as Sophia, sat in my lap and sniffed my coffee cup whenever I raised it to drink. The apartment was small but nicely kept. The floors were oak and not spoiled by wall-to-wall carpeting. She took the throw rugs from the plastic dry-cleaning wrap and spread them in front of the fireplace.
“They get so dirty,” she explained as she straightened the rugs, then walked over and sat down.
Then she nodded to the kitten. “We just found her downstairs in the laundry room one day. There’s a small TV down there and Linda and I liked to sit down there and smoke cigarettes and drink Cokes and watch Bandstand. Do you think Dick Clark’s a crook? My boyfriend does.” She shrugged. “Ex boyfriend. We broke up.” She tried again: “So do you think Dick Clark’s a crook?”
A disc jockey named Alan Freed was in trouble with federal authorities for allegedly taking bribes to play certain songs on his radio show. Freed didn’t have enough power to make a hit record and people felt he was being used as a scapegoat. On the other hand, Dick Clark did have the power to make or break a hit record (Lord, did he, with American Bandstand on ninety minutes several afternoons a week), but the feds had rather curiously avoided investigating him in any serious way.
“Could be,” I said. “But I guess I’d rather talk about Linda.”