Homicidal Holidays

by Donna Andrews

  “All right, Just Jim,” Gibbs said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was quite impressed with the sauce you whipped up for Christmas dinner,” Lanier said. “Since I’m having a few friends over for dinner next week, I decided to try making something like it. Have I managed to capture the flavor of yours?”

  The “sauce,” Gibbs noted, was in a plastic container like those that eager salesmen hawked door-to-door. Gibbs would never have put anything in such a tacky, middlebrow container. Wrinkling his nose, he took the container from Lanier and removed the lid. He sniffed it judiciously.

  “It certainly has the right aroma,” Gibbs said. “Of course, that’s not a definitive judgment. I’d have to taste it to be sure.”

  “By all means,” Lanier said with enthusiasm. “Let me get you a spoon. I really want your opinion.”

  He sprang from his seat and hurried to Gibbs’s kitchen, returning quickly with the utensil.

  “Please,” he said as he handed Gibbs the spoon. “Let me have it straight. I can take it.”

  Gibbs took the spoon and dipped into the compote. The flavor that greeted him was as familiar as an old friend. His face registered his recognition. He quickly dipped his spoon back in and savored another, larger portion.

  “Does that smile mean that I have succeeded?” Lanier asked.

  “You have, indeed.” Gibbs took another, larger spoonful. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that you had duplicated my achievement perfectly.”

  “Well, not quite,” Lanier said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Gibbs asked, after swallowing his third spoonful of the compote.

  “I didn’t duplicate it,” Lanier said. “I merely transferred it from your container to one of mine. You’re correct that this is quite like your own creation. That’s because it is your creation.”

  Gibbs’s spoon froze halfway to his mouth.

  “But why—” he exclaimed.

  “Why? Did you think your sudden gesture of friendship wouldn’t seem suspicious, after years of getting the cold shoulder? You were pathetically obvious. I racked my brain, trying to figure out what you were up to. And I realized you were faking it—you had some sort of dirty trick up your sleeve.”

  “But surely you didn’t think I would try to harm you,” Gibbs said, realizing as the words left his mouth just how lame his protest sounded.

  “Well, I didn’t know, did I? How could I know? But I thought it was possible. I needed to find out. And from the sick look on your face, I’m guessing my suspicions were on the money.”

  “Oh, God,” Gibbs said.

  “It’s no use blaming God,” Lanier said. “You can get an explanation from God face to face pretty soon. And I’m sure he’ll be interested in your explanation, as well.”

  “And how will you explain yourself?” Gibbs said heatedly. “Do you think God will ignore murder?”

  “I don’t think of it as me committing murder,” Lanier said. “I think of it as you committing suicide.”

  After Lanier left, Gibbs thought about his dilemma. Perhaps he hadn’t added sufficient quantities of ricin to the compote. But he knew that he had done everything correctly.

  He could go to the emergency room. But would they even know what ricin was? And it would likely be days or weeks, even, before he could find a specialized physician capable of applying an appropriate antidote, if one existed. Surely there was something—something exploratory or experimental perhaps—that could alter his fate and improve his prognosis.

  But in order to seek a cure, he realized, he would be forced to explain his circumstances: how he had attempted to murder his neighbor, and how it had all gone wrong. Could he live with that knowledge? More to the point, could others—people he admired and respected—admire and respect him if they knew what he had done? Would he be able to face them if they knew?

  On the other hand, if he died, there would be a funeral, and perhaps a memorial service, at which various people would deliver eulogies. That could only enhance his reputation. He could also specify in his will that Lanier be invited to speak on that occasion. Would Lanier be tempted to explain the circumstances of Gibbs’s death, including Gibbs’s failed homicide attempt? Perhaps, but Gibbs thought such an attempt would backfire.

  What sort of man, after all, would speak ill of the deceased? And at the decedent’s own memorial?

  He realized that he was developing a cough and a sore throat. He would probably feel even worse in the morning. Perhaps it would be best simply to let nature take its course and leave his reputation intact.

  He would die, of course, but he would have protected his reputation, and a man’s reputation was—after all—his most valuable possession. He was surprised to find that the thought was rather comforting.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Clyde Linsley is a refugee from journalism who now writes historical fiction because he likes history. His most recent novels featured Yankee lawyer Josiah Beede. “Sauce for the Goose” is more contemporary, however. Linsley lives in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C.

  A CHRISTMAS TRIFLE, by Donna Andrews

  I spent almost a minute beating the alarm clock before realizing the ringing came from the phone.

  “Yeah,” I said, hoping I was holding the receiver right side up.

  “Meg, this is an emergency! How soon can you get here?”

  “Who is this, and where is ‘here?’”

  Okay, so I wouldn’t win any charm contests at six a.m. I’m not used to being awake at that hour, much less coping with emergencies.

  “It’s Aunt Rose, and I need you right away! Someone has tried to poison Stanley!”

  I should have known. These days my whole family seemed to think I was some kind of female Sherlock Holmes.

  “Have you called the police?” I asked, sitting up and shoving the hair out of my eyes.

  “They won’t do anything,” Aunt Rose said. “We need you.”

  “All right. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  I hung up the phone and sighed. I already had plans for the day, and Aunt Rose wasn’t part of them.

  “What’s going on?” The main object of my now-postponed Friday plans stuck his head out from under the comforter, blinking sleepily.

  “Aunt Rose was on the phone,” I said. “Apparently Uncle Stanley is visiting, and she thinks someone has tried to poison him.”

  “I remember Uncle Stanley,” Michael said, yawning. “The judge. The one who threw us that nice party when we got back from our honeymoon. I don’t remember meeting an Aunt Rose.”

  “Well, now’s your chance. Get dressed,” I said, grabbing a sweater from the floor. “I promised her I’d go over right away.”

  Since Aunt Rose lived in Richmond, an hour’s drive away even without Friday rush hour traffic, ‘right away’ took longer than I liked.

  “Don’t worry,” Michael said, for the hundredth time, as he navigated the quiet streets of Aunt Rose’s neighborhood nearly two hours later. “I’m sure Uncle Stanley will be all right. We’ll figure out what’s wrong.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “There, that’s her house.”

  “Which one?”

  “End of the block.” I pointed. “With the snowman in the yard.”

  Michael gave me an odd look.

  Normally there’s nothing odd about having a snowman in your yard, except that it was only mid-October, and it hadn’t snowed yet. For that matter, the last two winters had been exceptionally mild, and it had been a good thirty months since we’d had enough snow to make a snowball, much less the enormous snowman gracing Aunt Rose’s lawn.

  “It’s not real snow,” I said.

  “I suspected as much.”

  “Part of her holiday decorations.”

  “Really.”

  He was getting that look again. That look that made me wonder if Aunt Rose would be the last straw; if she would be the crazy relative who finally made him sit up and say, “Meg’s whole family is absolutely bonk
ers! What have I let myself in for? Is it too late to get an annulment?”

  “She really goes all out, doesn’t she?” was what he eventually said.

  Apart from the snowman, we saw a life-sized wooden nativity scene one of the cousins had carved and painted, with more enthusiasm than skill. A bright red sleigh, with its eight reindeer, perched on the roof. And, of course, sticking out of the chimney, a fairly realistic set of legs with polished black boots attached as if Santa had taken a nosedive down the chimney.

  More reindeer grazed on the lawn, including one with a red lightbulb blinking where his nose ought to be. Another enterprising cousin had transformed several dozen garden gnomes into elves to create a detailed Santa’s workshop tableau.

  Fir garlands and red bows decked the picket fence. A wreath the size of a truck tire graced the front door. Electric candles stood on the inside windowsills with glass ornaments hanging above them. Aunt Rose hadn’t turned on the lights, but I could tell that every tree in the yard was wired from root to crown, and the eaves were dripping with those new icicle-style lights.

  “Wait till you see the inside,” I said.

  Michael smiled. He thought I was kidding. I watched his jaw drop when the door swung open.

  The hall alone contained enough evergreen garlands to strip a twenty-foot spruce—had they not been made of plastic—several miles of velvet ribbon, and a small artificial Christmas tree. An elaborate concoction of bells, blinking lights, and mistletoe dangled from the chandelier, and more bells and mistletoe graced each of the three doorways leading out of the hall. The smell of evergreen alone would have been pretty strong—she must have used several cans of holiday-scented air freshener—but it was almost lost in the overpowering reek of cinnamon and spices wafting from the kitchen. I could hear Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas” somewhere in the background.

  Normally, Aunt Rose would have given us an hour-long house tour so we could admire the decorations. Not this time. She barely let us get our coats off before leading us to the problem.

  “Thank God you’re here!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been worried sick. He’s right in here under the Christmas tree. The big one in the living room,” she added, seeing Michael glance at the small tree behind her.

  “Under the Christmas tree?” I glanced over at it. “What the—?”

  It wasn’t Uncle Stanley lying under the Christmas tree but a large, gray tabby. The several hundred elaborately wrapped fake presents Aunt Rose usually spread out under the tree had been shoved aside to make a space on the red velvet tree skirt for the cat.

  “This is Stanley?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m cat-sitting for my neighbor. She’s on a three-month around-the-world cruise. She’ll never forgive me if anything happens to him.”

  I frowned at Stanley. An open can of cat food lay by his head—an expensive brand, if the small size of the can was anything to go by. He was ignoring it. He was also ignoring the fur mouse, the catnip ball, and the scattering of cat treats lying around him.

  “Hello, Stanley,” I said.

  He raised his head slightly, inspected me briefly, then closed his eyes and slumped back onto the velvet.

  “He just lies there like that,” Aunt Rose whispered.

  “Have you—?” I began.

  “Shh!” Aunt Rose said. “Let’s go out in the kitchen where we won’t disturb him.”

  We tiptoed into the kitchen. The Christmas elves had struck here, too. Another tree occupied most of the space on the table. Unlike the one in the living room, which was an all-purpose ten-foot artificial tree covered with an assortment of ornaments, this was a theme tree—all the ornaments were edible. My stomach rumbled to remind me that I’d skipped breakfast.

  I parked Aunt Rose in a chair and sat beside her. I had to crane my neck slightly to see her past the lower branches of the tree.

  “Have you taken him to the vet?” I asked.

  “Three times now. He’s had every test in the book, all negative. We’ve changed brands on his cat food and his kitty litter. Nothing helps. The vet thinks he’s being poisoned. Repeatedly. Tells me to keep him inside, put away any rat poison. Well I don’t let him go outside, and I wouldn’t put down poison for anything, not even roaches, if I had them, which I assure you I do not, any more than I have rats. The idea! And I haven’t let anyone but you in for two days now!”

  “Calm down,” I said, patting her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. How about some tea? That’ll make you feel better.”

  “I’ll make it,” Michael said, walking over to the stove and peering into a pot that was steaming on the back burner. “Or better yet, how about some of this hot cider Aunt Rose has all ready?”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Hot cider?” Aunt Rose seemed puzzled.

  Michael held out two steaming cups. “I’ll make tea if you prefer.”

  “No, I’ll take cider,” I said, taking a cup from his hand and inhaling the rich cinnamon-apple smell.

  “No! Don’t drink that!” Aunt Rose said, springing to her feet. She grabbed my arm, spilling some of the cider.

  “Ouch!” I said. “Why not? Are you saving it for something?”

  “It’s not cider; it’s a stovetop sachet,” she said, taking the cups and bustling over to the stove. “You boil it to make the house smell good; you’re not supposed to drink it. There’s a warning label on the package: not for human consumption.”

  “Do you suppose Stanley got into the ersatz cider?” Michael asked, as Aunt Rose poured the fragrant liquid back into the pot.

  “No,” I said. “But I bet I know what he has gotten into.”

  I marched back into the living room, with Michael and Aunt Rose trailing in my wake. “Okay, half of this stuff has got to go,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Aunt Rose asked.

  “Poinsettias: poisonous, according to Dad,” I said, pointing to a dozen flower pots massed on the coffee table. “They probably wouldn’t kill Stanley—that’s a myth. But they could give him a serious upset tummy. Has he been sick to his stomach?”

  “Oh, yes,” Aunt Rose said. “Repeatedly. All over the presents.”

  Did the poinsettias show feline tooth marks on their lower petals? Hard to tell. Even if they didn’t, there were plenty more elsewhere in the house—I could see several dozen white ones through the dining room arch.

  “Mistletoe: also poisonous,” I said, pointing to the mantle. “To people, at least; can cause convulsions in children when they eat it. The holly berries: toxic. Also those beautiful white lilies. Deadly to cats. And I’m not quite sure, but I think that red cyclamen and all those beautiful red amaryllises are poisonous, too.”

  “Your dad’s the expert on poisonous plants,” Michael said. “Maybe we should call him.”

  “He’d only say the same thing,” I said. “That we should start getting rid of all these dangerous plants.”

  “All my Christmas plants!” Aunt Rose wailed. She was glaring at Stanley.

  “Just until your neighbor reclaims Stanley,” I said.

  “That’s not till after New Year’s,” Aunt Rose said.

  “We’ll stow them upstairs in your guest rooms for the time being.”

  It took over an hour, but we emptied the downstairs of toxic plants. Stanley lay watching us with his ears laid back. About the time we dragged the last poinsettia upstairs, he condescended to stagger to his feet and nibble a bit of cat food.

  “See,” Michael said. “He’s better already.”

  Tired of being ignored was my diagnosis. Our efforts might prevent a recurrence of the problem, but they couldn’t have cured Stanley that fast. Clearly, Stanley was the feline equivalent of a drama queen. Or maybe he shared my impatience with Aunt Rose’s over-the-top observance of Christmas.

  “Now keep your eyes open, and make sure he stays out of the guest rooms,” I said aloud as Michael and I were putting on our coats.

  “Ten more weeks,” Aunt Rose
said, looking around. “A whole holiday season. My poor house.”

  The house looked worlds better, if you asked me. Less like an overstocked Christmas boutique. I decided it wouldn’t be tactful to say so.

  “Cheer up,” Michael said. “This gives you a great excuse not to cat-sit in the future. Or dog-sit, for that matter.”

  “Hmmm…”Aunt Rose said, looking over her shoulder at Stanley, who was eyeing her red velvet couch as if to assess its suitability as a scratching post. “That’s true. And thank you for coming, Meg. I knew you’d crack the case.”

  “No problem. Though Dad could have done the same thing. Or your vet, if he did house calls.”

  Aunt Rose stood on her doorstep, waving to us as we got into the car.

  “You know,” I said as I started the engine. “There was an easier solution. I just couldn’t bring myself to suggest it.”

  “Nothing that would hurt Stanley, I hope.”

  “Of course not! We could have volunteered to keep Stanley,” I said. “Maybe we still should. We both like cats. I wouldn’t mind if we got one someday. Aunt Rose would feel so much better if she could put her plants back. And there’s nothing in our miserable little basement apartment that would poison poor Stanley.”

  “Not yet,” Michael said. “But there will be.”

  He reached behind the seat and pulled out a paper bag.

  “I swiped a good deal of the mistletoe while we were undecorating,” he said, tucking a sprig of it behind my ear. “I’m sure we can find something interesting to do with it for the rest of the weekend.”

  I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Aunt Rose stood in her doorway, still waving at us. Stanley was sitting in one of the windows, eyeing the fragile-looking glass ornament dangling over his head. I saw him draw back his paw and bat the ornament off its mooring. I probably only imagined hearing the delicate tinkle of breaking glass, but I definitely wasn’t imagining Aunt Rose’s shriek of horror.

  “Yes,” I said. “Stanley will definitely have more fun with Aunt Rose.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Donna Andrews is the author of twenty-two published mysteries. The Good, the Bad, and the Emus (Minotaur, July 2014) is the seventeenth book in the Meg Langslow series, and The Nightingale Before Christmas (Minotaur, October 2014) is the eighteenth. She has been a coordinating editor of the Chesapeake Crimes anthology series since the first volume. You can find her at http://www.donnaandrews.com, at the Femmes Fatales blog (http://femmesfatales.typepad.com), on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/DonnaAndrewsBooks), on Twitter (@DonnaAndrews13), and at her computer, working on the next book.