Homicidal Holidays

by Donna Andrews

  Dinner did nothing to soothe his anxiety. Crowded together on his Wedgwood plate were rare roast beef, a salad of grated red cabbage, and baby beets. Their juices, like blood, stained the mashed potatoes nestled against them. Famished as he was, Charles pushed the plate away. It wasn’t just the nearly all-red meal. He couldn’t tolerate individual foods touching each other. He desperately needed a glass of wine, but not the one she’d chosen for him: burgundy, in a gleaming blood-red goblet.

  Elise handed him a long, slender box. What can it be but a tie? How original is that? And when he opened it, that’s what it was. Tiny, white polka dots on crimson silk.

  “Elise, what the devil’s gotten into you?” Charles pounded the fuchsia tablecloth with his fist. “Have you ever seen me in a red tie? Well, have you?” His face contorted and his cheeks flushed.

  A twinge of genuine sympathy clouded his wife’s face. “No, darling, but I thought it would be a refreshing change. The stock market’s been so bad, and the business news has been so gloomy. I thought this bright tie would cheer you up. It’s an Armani, a special limited edition. I thought you’d like it. I’m sorry.”

  “Have you ever seen me in any suit or shirt or jacket that’s not black, gray, navy, or brown?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I hate red! You know that. And what’s with the ferns and the birds and this revolting dinner? Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

  Charles suddenly bent over, clutching his stomach. “I don’t feel so well. Something’s wrong.” He bolted from the table and staggered into the powder room. Falling to his knees, he flipped up the toilet seat and vomited. His guts heaved and retched until, finally, his belly quieted down. He flushed and pushed down the toilet-seat lid. Then his head began aching as he took in the lid’s new cloth cover: red and yellow stripes. Pulling himself weakly upright to the vanity sink, he turned on the faucet to wash his hands and face. That’s when he spotted the cerise hand towels and—in a crystal bowl—cherry-red, heart-shaped soaps. Charles broke into a spasm of chills. He reached for the bottle of Listerine mouthwash he kept handy, the citrus-flavored orange one. But what his eyes met with absolute horror was a bottle of Lavoris, in fire-engine red. Charles gasped and clutched his chest.

  * * * *

  Elise remained seated at the table, sipping her wine, smiling widely as she gazed at all the new touches in their house. You deserve it, you louse, for cheating on me. And once your anxiety attack is over, I’ll hand you the divorce papers—with a photo of that diamond-and-sapphire pendant attached. It should be enough to get me everything. Happy Valentine’s Day.

  She strode to the powder room. The door was open. She arrived just as Charles swayed forward, backward, forward—and crumpled to the floor. His large frame filled the tiny room.

  She knelt beside him. “Oh, my God! Wake up, dear. Please wake up. Are you all right?” But she knew he wasn’t. His face had taken on a ghostly pallor. His eyes had rolled up into his head.

  Elise felt a stab of remorse. Yes, she had orchestrated her scheme to feed on his phobias. Yes, she had intended to make him suffer an anxiety attack before serving him with divorce papers. But a heart attack? And one severe enough to kill her strong, handsome, robust husband? She hadn’t intended to take her revenge so far.

  Then she remembered the stunning pendant he’d bought for someone else, and her guilt evaporated as quickly as it had come. Everything was working out—amazingly well, actually. Charles’s death was quite a bonus. A fortuitous accident! His generous life insurance policy would set her up in comfort. He hadn’t bought the diamond-and-sapphire pendant for her, but so what? Now she could go out and buy herself one. Only bigger. Happy Valentine’s Day to me.

  On the way to the kitchen to call 9-1-1, Elise meandered through the rooms she’d transformed. In the dining room, pulsing with magenta accessories, a fresh thought hit her. Now she could get rid of the gauche décor, those violent, head-splitting reds. And the ferns. And those annoying parrots. Win. Win. Win.

  Almost reluctantly, Elise made the call. And while she waited for the ambulance, she poured herself a large glass of white wine.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Rosemary and Larry Mild are cheerful partners in crime. They coauthor the Dan & Rivka Sherman Mysteries: Death Goes Postal and Death Takes a Mistress; and the Paco & Molly Mysteries: Locks and Cream Cheese, Hot Grudge Sunday, and Boston Scream Pie. They recently moved from Maryland to Honolulu and published Cry Ohana, a Hawaii thriller. Members of Sisters in Crime, both Chesapeake and Hawaii chapters, they have two wickedly entertaining stories in the anthology Mystery in Paradise: 13 Tales of Suspense. Rosemary also announces her new memoir: Love! Laugh! Panic! Life with My Mother. Visit the Milds at www.magicile.com.

  PRESIDENTS’ DAY

  COMPROMISED CIRCUMSTANCES, by E. B. Davis

  The Google Alert shocked me and brought back memories I’d tried to bury over thirty years ago. I leaned back in my desk chair and expelled a breath I’d been holding since college. I’d never told anyone what happened on Presidents’ Day 1979, just a few months before graduation.

  * * * *

  It all started innocently enough the first week of freshman year. Although we were both from Pennsylvania, my roommate and I were from different backgrounds. Janice Butler came from the small town of Mercersburg, where her civil-engineer father worked. As a math major, she lived in the black-and-white world of equations and finite small-town values. My parents took over my grandfather’s criminal law practice in Philadelphia, where I’d grown up. The private schools I’d attended with people from different races, cultures, and religions prepared me for the diversity I found in D.C. when I came to American University. During our freshman year, I remembered feeling as if Janice were a puppy I was training, teaching her about city living and the world of gray.

  We went to a freshman mixer held in The Tavern, a bar in the student union. Back then beer was legal for eighteen-year-olds in D.C. We watched the crowd around us and sipped watery beer out of plastic cups.

  At another table, an exotic-looking girl laughed. The laugh was distinctive, trilling as if it rolled off her tongue. Her kohl-lined eyes and dark, sleek hair made her appear older than the rest of us freshmen. Pressed Calvin Klein jeans encased her long, thin legs ending with strappy platform sandals that looked like expensive Italian leather. Janice noticed her, too, and I was surprised when she addressed the girl.

  “Aren’t you in my Intro Psych class?” Janice asked.

  “Mondays at ten,” the girl said, her accent soft and foreign. She got up and joined our table.

  “Yeah, that’s the section I’m in,” Janice said. “Where are you from?”

  “Originally Madrid, but I’ve lived in this country for years and went to high school in Bethesda. My father is with the Spanish Embassy.”

  “Wow, that must be exciting,” Janice said.

  “It’s boring. I like the New York scene better,” the girl said. “On weekends friends and I, we shuttle up there to party.”

  “Without your parents?” Janice asked.

  I was suddenly embarrassed for Janice. I was afraid the girl would think Janice was a hick. How could I get her to shut up?

  “Hi,” I said, and stuck out my hand. “I’m Denise Kelly. I’m from Philly.” I gestured to Janice and said, “This is my roommate, Janice Butler.”

  “Carmen Torres.” She shook my hand, pressed her lips into a straight line, raised her eyebrows, and gave Janice a perfunctory nod.

  “So, where do you go in the Big Apple?” I said.

  “Studio 54, Max’s Kansas City, CBGBs,” Carmen said.

  “Are you eighteen?” Janice asked.

  Carmen nodded again as if talking to Janice were a chore, but she seemed so cool, I gave her a break. “This place must be killing you,” I said, laughing.

  “Meeting new people is cool, but this bar is a plebian drag.”

  “Do you live off campus?” Janice asked.

  “I could have, but some friends a
nd I got a quad in Anderson Hall.”

  “We’re in Anderson too,” I said, glad we had found something in common.

  Carmen took out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out the smoke. “Let’s go some place more happening. With drinkable wine,” she added, grimacing at her plastic cup.

  We left to pile into Carmen’s new beige BMW, a car unknown to Janice, who asked Carmen a million questions about it. Carmen answered Janice’s questions with a tight smile that I thought bordered on condescension.

  Carmen headed toward Georgetown. I knew the way since I’d visited a prep school friend who went to Georgetown University. My friend had shown me around the area, pointing out the regular hangouts including her favorite, The Tombs.

  As we rounded a traffic circle, Carmen’s driving reminded me of a Le Mans driver. When she spoke of growing up in Madrid and then moving to D.C., she looked at us instead of the road. I held my breath as Carmen nearly sideswiped parked cars. She parked at a private residence, a tucked-away mansion with a driveway and garage, a sought-after commodity in an area crammed with shops and clubs loved by D.C. students.

  “Are you allowed to park here?” Janice asked Carmen as we got out of the car.

  “Of course. My parents own this house, silly.”

  The house was on Prospect Street, a block away from M Street, the main drag. I hoped Carmen wouldn’t take the unfortunate shortcut down the hill to M Street, just to shock Janet, but as we approached the turnoff, I realized that was her plan.

  “Carmen, let’s just walk down 35th Street,” I said, annoyed at her. As much as I wished Janice would shut up, I didn’t want Carmen to pick on her.

  “Oh, come on, it’s fun.”

  “Oh, my God!” Janice gasped. “These are the steps from The Exorcist! I didn’t know they were in Georgetown.”

  “Yes. It’s a shortcut down to The Cellar Door,” Carmen said. “I heard Jackson Browne might show up to play.”

  It was only one of the ways we could have gone down the hill to M Street, but I didn’t want to chicken out. Carmen bounded ahead of us, scampering down the steep stairs. Janice clutched my arm as we gingerly descended the concrete steps on our platform heels while clinging to the black railing. Surrounded by a stone wall on one side and a house’s brick façade on the other, the stairs amplified sounds from the street below with an eerie reverberation.

  Through her sweatshirt I felt Janice tremble. The movie version of The Exorcist, released only two years before, was still scaring everyone so I couldn’t fault her for fearing the steps. And given the darkness and our impractical footwear, they were treacherous. Headlights from cars turning left off the Whitehurst Freeway flashed in our eyes, blinding us. I tripped on my bell-bottoms, but Janice caught me. Midway down, Carmen screamed, frightening us half to death, then she looked back and laughed. I could have done without this drama. Carmen’s lack of sensitivity started to repel me.

  As we approached The Cellar Door, we saw the line snaking around the building. It looked like a private speakeasy I’d read about from the 1920s.

  “We’ll never get in,” I said.

  “No worries—I have connections.” As Carmen passed those in line, they stared as if she might be someone famous. She stepped under the small canopy over the club entrance, opened the single metal door, and talked with a man. He ushered us in, making me feel conspicuous for butting in front of everyone, and directed us to the left where tables lined a wrought-iron railing overlooking the cellar stage.

  As we waited for the show to start, Carmen gossiped about celebrities and places that were only names to me, and rolled her eyes at Janet’s naïve comments. Strange that only a few hours before I was excited at having made such a cool new friend, and now I could hardly wait to get away from her.

  At least one good thing came out of the experience. Janice and I bonded that night. When Carmen dropped us a few days later, we weren’t surprised. And we didn’t care.

  * * * *

  Fall semester of our senior year, Janice’s little sister, Hadley, a high school senior, visited us to college-shop the university. Their parents allowed her to drive to D.C. without them since Janice could look after her. I found it interesting to compare the sisters. Hadley looked much like Janice, but she was less conservative and inhibited than Janice had been our freshman year. Like many older children, Janice must have been her parents’ guinea pig. By the time Hadley came along, they were less fearful and strict. But Janice had come out of her shell, and showed her sister around campus and town like an old hand. I was proud of her.

  We took Hadley with us to our usual Saturday night partying and three a.m. Sunday breakfast at an all-night diner. “You do this every weekend?” Hadley asked as she fingered the menu.

  “Only for special occasions,” Janice said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Now that we were seniors, with graduation looming, we’d cut back our clubbing a lot.

  Hadley excused herself and went to the bathroom. The nearby booths were empty, so I took the opportunity to tell Janice about an embarrassing problem I’d hidden from her.

  “My LSAT scores weren’t good,” I said. Attempting nonchalance, I buttered my toast.

  “I’m sorry, Denise. Can you take them over?”

  “These scores are higher than the last ones. The competition to get into law school is murder.”

  “I know. I’ve heard. Everybody majoring in Poli Sci seems to be applying. What are you going to do?”

  I contemplated my plate to avoid looking her in the eye. “You know I’ve been going over to the law school and getting to know the admissions’ staff.”

  “Yeah, but without high scores, what good will that do?”

  “There’s this young guy who works in admissions. He likes coke, and he’s made it clear he’d like to go out with me.”

  “Denise, what are you thinking?”

  “A lawyer needs to know when to switch tactics to win.” I’d hoped to hear a resounding tone in my voice. Instead, I heard the outburst of billiard balls clashing from a strong break.

  “So, like, he’s going to change your scores?”

  “Yes. He gets the scores from the College Board and enters them into their computer system.”

  “Won’t they look at the hard copies?”

  “He uses punch cards to enter the data and throws away the hard copies.”

  Janice stared at my face, and I felt her respect for me plummet.

  “Don’t look at me like that. You know my family expects me to join the family firm. I don’t have any siblings. They expect me to take the law firm to the third generation and the next century. They paid for prep school and college. Conversation at family dinners all summer focused on me getting into law school. I can’t disappoint them, and what else am I going to do?”

  Janice answered by biting her lip. Damn. I hadn’t wanted to keep such a big secret from my best friend, but now I saw confessing to her was a mistake.

  It was still dark as we headed to the lot where I’d parked my car. Hadley walked on the street side, with Janice in the middle, as we rounded the corner to the parking lot behind the restaurant. I heard a woman’s familiar laugh, a car door slammed, and then a car engine started. Tires squealed as a driver pulled out of a parking space on Wisconsin Avenue.

  I startled when lights glared directly behind us as the car rounded the corner, and I jerked my head to look over my shoulder. The car ran over the curb onto the sidewalk, hitting Hadley from behind, catapulting her into the air, and sideswiping Janice, who rammed into me. As Janice fell onto the sidewalk, I ricocheted off Janice, pancaked into the wall of the restaurant, and avoided falling.

  Hadley slammed with a thud onto the sidewalk. Face up. I ran over to her. Blood spattered the concrete behind her head. Her eyes were open but didn’t move. When I talked to her and touched her shoulders, she didn’t respond. As Janice picked herself off the sidewalk, I watched the car’s rear lights fade as it sped down the road.

  Janice hovered over Hadley, scre
aming. The restaurant manager and the waitress ran out. When the manager saw Hadley, he ran back inside to call for help. Suspecting that Janice was in shock, I forced her to sit on the sidewalk.

  Soon the emergency response team came, but I knew before they started working on Hadley that she was dead. They medicated Janice, who was hysterical, while I told the police that Carmen was responsible. I’d heard her laugh. I’d seen her car.

  * * * *

  The scuttlebutt around the dorm later that morning put Carmen at a club with friends, partying and drinking. At around two a.m., they’d decided to go out for breakfast. Carmen’s friends claimed that she intended to follow them to the diner, but she never arrived. No one, it seemed, saw her after that—until I spotted her car at the crime scene.

  I tried to comfort Janice, but she froze me out. That afternoon her parents arrived. Janice left with them.

  With everything that had happened, I didn’t call my parents to tell them the news until two days later. The story shocked them.

  “I’ll have to testify against Carmen,” I said. “It will be good for me to go through a trial and get experience in court. It’s not the experience I wanted, but since I’m the only witness, I’ll have to anyway.”

  “Will there even be a trial?” my mother asked.

  Dumbfounded, I blinked and hesitated before saying, “Of course. She’ll be charged with vehicular manslaughter and DWI.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mom, she ran down Hadley and killed her. I saw her do it. Of course, she’ll be tried.”

  “Honey, didn’t you say Carmen’s father was a diplomat.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then she probably won’t be charged with anything because she has diplomatic immunity.”

  “What? Her father maybe, but not her.”

  “Her, too. She’s under twenty-three. Under the Diplomatic Relations Act, she has immunity.”