by Joanne Fluke
A Christmas tree was set up in a corner of the room. And in an ecumenical nod to the minorities, a Hanukah menorah and Kwanzaa candleholder were both aglow with candles.
I was relieved to see that most of the Girlfriend Volunteers were pleasant, average-looking gals, much like Yours Truly, hovering in the non-threatening Middle to Upper Middle of the 1-10 scale.
When it came to Tyler Girard, I didn’t need any competition, thank you very much.
“Hey, Jaine. I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.”
Speak of the darling devil, there he was at my side, smiling that endearing smile of his. I’d been so busy scoping the competition, I hadn’t seen him come up behind me.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, thinking how nice he looked in his chinos and crew neck sweater.
“Oh, I understand. Traffic’s a bear. Sister Mary Agnes just called. She’s going to be late, too.”
“How nice,” I murmured.
Uh-oh. That hadn’t been the right thing to say, had it? I’d been staring at Tyler’s eyes, trying to decide if they were brown or hazel, and hadn’t really been paying attention.
“I meant, how nice that I’ll finally get a chance to meet her.”
“She’s really looking forward to meeting you, too.” Then he glanced down at my Hot Stuff package. “I see you brought a present for Angel.”
“Who?”
“Angel. Your Girlfriend.”
Drat. I really had to stop staring at him and concentrate.
“Oh, right.”
“It looks expensive. I hope you didn’t go over the twenty dollar limit.”
“Actually, I did. I know I shouldn’t have, but it’s something Angel had her heart set on.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Well, Angel and I really bonded on our date.”
At that moment I caught a glimpse of Angel at the buffet table, and the sight of her skinny arms reaching out to fill her plate brought on a fresh wave of sympathy for the kid. Maybe we hadn’t bonded on our date. But I knew we would, eventually.
“I’m so glad it worked out,” Tyler said. “I was afraid she might be a handful.”
“Oh, no,” I fibbed. “Not at all.”
“Well, now that you’re here, let’s go get you some dinner. You hungry?”
“A little,” I said, trying not to look like the kind of person who can pack away a dozen Swedish meatballs in a single seating.
“We’d better grab your chow before the festivities begin.”
“Festivities?”
“Yes, after dinner, we open the presents and then Sister Mary Agnes gives a little speech. And then we wrap things up with dessert and coffee.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh, it will be.”
He beamed me another heart-melting smile which I beamed right back at him. And then, just as we were establishing meaningful eye contact, a willowy blonde came sashaying over to his side—one of the few 9’s in the crowd—and grabbed him by the elbow.
“Tyler, honey,” she cooed. “I’m going to steal you away.”
I glared at her, fuming.
“Beat it, blondie.”
Okay, I didn’t really say that. I just stood there, faking a stiff smile, fighting my impulse to strangle her.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” she said. “I want to introduce you to my husband!”
With that my smile turned genuine, and my homicidal urges subsided. This harmless woman was married.
Tyler shrugged helplessly.
“Catch you later,” he called out to me as she pulled him away.
I stood there for a dreamy minute wondering what it would be like to be caught by Tyler, preferably in the Honeymoon Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel.
Then I headed over to the Christmas tree. This whole L.A. Girlfriends thing had worked out wonderfully well. True, my initial date with Angel was a bit of a disaster, some might say of Titanic proportions, but that was bound to change. Gradually she’d open up to me, and we’d form a bond that would no doubt last all our lives.
I put Angel’s gift under the tree, lost in a reverie of Angel all grown up and graduating from Berkeley, valedictorian of her class, thanking the woman who changed her life, Jaine Austen Girard, when I heard someone calling my name.
I turned and saw Kevin Cavanaugh, in a frayed sport coat that hung loosely on his thin frame.
“I’m so happy to see you here,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d given up on Angel, the way you raced off the other day.”
“Oh, that. I had an emergency with my cat. A dental problem. Abscessed tooth. Had to be pulled. You don’t know what it’s like trying to find a cat dentist on a weekend.”
What was wrong with me? Couldn’t I just tell a fib without writing a novel about it?
“I’m just glad you’re here. You don’t know how much this means to Angel. I realize she can be difficult, but she’s had a pretty rough time of things.”
“Oh, I know,” I nodded sympathetically. “What with her asthma and all.”
“Asthma?” Kevin blinked, puzzled. “Angel doesn’t have asthma.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell me that’s what she told you.”
“Well, actually—”
“No, I mean it. Don’t tell me. If I hear that kid has told one more lie, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
He shot me a pleading look, his pale eyes watery with despair. The guy was just a step away from jumping off a cliff into a mental breakdown. And I wasn’t about to push him over the edge.
“Oh, no!” I assured him. “She never said that. I must’ve misunderstood. I’ll go have a little talk with her now and straighten everything out.”
I gave him a cheerful wave good-bye, hoping he couldn’t see the vein in my neck that was throbbing with fury, and marched over to Angel, who was still at the buffet table.
I thought of all the trouble I’d been through to get those jeans, the hours stuck in traffic, the horrible battle with Ms. Fireplug. All because I felt sorry for the poor little asthmatic waif. I was so mad, I was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of my ears.
I found Angel in front of the Swedish meatballs, poking another little girl in the chest.
“But I can’t afford to pay you protection money,” the other kid wailed.
Stepping between them, I took the other kid by the shoulders and knelt down so we were face to face.
“Don’t pay Angel a dime, sweetheart,” I told her. “If she threatens you again, call me. I’ll take care of it.”
I gave her one of my business cards, then got up and turned to Angel, breathing fire.
“Did you bring my present?” she had the nerve to ask.
“Yes,” I snarled, “I brought your present.”
“Good. I’m gonna get it right now and make tracks outta here. This party’s nothing but a bunch of dorks.”
“Not so fast, kiddo,” I said, grabbing her by the elbow. “We need to talk. In private.”
My hand a vise around her wrist, I dragged her to a small pantry behind the buffet. Inside was a table laden with the desserts that were to be served after the gift-opening ceremonies. I was glad to see that nobody else was there.
“Whaddaya want?” she whined, as I yanked her inside and shut the door behind us.
“The truth. I know you don’t really have asthma.”
She shot me a defiant stare.
“So?”
“So, you lied to me.”
“And you fell for it.”
And then she smirked. The little monster was actually proud of herself.
“What about that inhaler?”
“I found it in the garbage.”
Still smirking.
“I’m really angry, Angel.”
“Oh, wow. I’m shaking in my shoes.”
“Do you have any idea how much I paid for those jeans?”
“Yeah. $79.99. Plus tax.”
And then, with that smirk planted firml
y on her face, she said one more word that pushed me over the edge:
“Sucker.”
“That’s what you think, kiddo,” I hissed.
I turned and started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To get my gift back.”
“You can’t do that!” she wailed.
“Oh, yeah? Watch me.”
I’d just made it to the door and was about to reach for the knob when I felt something soft and squishy hit me in the neck.
I scraped it off and looked down at the remains of a chocolate éclair on my fingers. And my cashmere sweater. And my beautiful suede boots. Which, needless to say, weren’t so beautiful anymore.
Angel’s smirk had now blossomed into a malicious grin.
I marched back to the dessert table, determined to wipe it off her face, and grabbed an éclair.
“You wouldn’t dare hit a kid,” Angel sneered, as I held it aloft.
I hated to admit it, but she had a point. I was a grown woman. I wasn’t actually going to demean myself by getting into a food fight with a twelve-year-old, was I?
Apparently, yes.
Because the next thing I knew I was smushing that éclair in Angel’s face. And loving every minute of it.
“Hah!” I cried.
Actually, I only got as far as “H—” Because just then, she lobbed me in the mouth with a double fudge brownie. (Which, I might add, was quite delicious.)
But for once I did not take time to savor my chocolate. I lobbed her right back with a wedge of pumpkin pie, and she zapped me with a fistful of mocha mousse. I retaliated with a volley of Christmas trifle, and she let me have it with a hunk of marshmallow-studded Jell-O.
I don’t know how long we continued in this disgraceful vein. All I know is she’d just dumped the entire contents of an eggnog bowl over my head when I heard:
“Jaine, what’s going on here?”
Wiping eggnog from eyes, I looked up and saw Tyler in the doorway, staring at us, aghast.
“She attacked me!” Angel said, suddenly the wide-eyed innocent.
“She started it!” I cried.
“She squished an éclair in my face,” Angel sniffled, summoning fat tears to her eyes.
Man, this kid deserved an Oscar.
“Did you actually hit her with an éclair?” Tyler asked me, radiating disbelief.
“Only because she hit me first!”
“And then she threw pumpkin pie at me. And trifle, too!” Angel moaned piteously, channeling Orphan Annie, Little Eva, and Tiny Tim all in one.
Tyler’s disbelief had turned to disgust.
“How could you, Jaine? She just a little girl.”
“Oh, no, Tyler. That’s where you’re wrong. She’s not a little girl. She’s the devil’s spawn. Five minutes with this kid is like a year in Guantanamo. I drove two hours in freeway traffic to buy her a pair of $80 jeans and had to fight Ms. Fireplug all because I thought she had asthma which was a total lie, and I don’t care if I did find Garth’s killer at the mall, she got the inhaler from the garbage!”
Okay, so I was rambling a tad. I was upset.
“Killer? What killer?” Tyler asked. “And who’s Garth?”
I never got to answer his questions because just then we were joined by another visitor.
“What on earth is happening in here?”
Tyler gulped. “Sister Mary Agnes!”
I looked over at the stumpy woman standing in the doorway, and blinked in disbelief.
Omigosh.
It was Ms. Fireplug!
Whatever happened to the good old days when nuns wore wimples and long black robes so you knew they were nuns and didn’t wind up wrestling them to the floor for a pair of Hot Stuff jeans?
I mean, really, if I’d had any idea that Ms. Fireplug was a nun that afternoon, I would’ve handed over the jeans, wished her a Merry Christmas, and trotted off to the food court to drown my frustrations in a frozen yogurt.
“I knew she was trouble the minute I saw her,” she now said to Tyler.
“Do you two know each other?” he asked.
“We’ve met,” I managed lamely.
“She stole my wallet.”
“That’s not true!” I protested. “She dropped it and I was returning it to her.”
Tyler stared at me, slack jawed, disillusionment oozing from every pore. Whatever spark I’d felt between us had been stomped to oblivion.
“It’s no use trying to explain,” I sighed. “I’ll just go.”
“Maybe you’d better,” he said softly.
By now a gaggle of L.A. Girlfriends had gathered around the pantry door, whispering among themselves.
With as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances, I plucked a piece of fudge brownie off my fanny and walked past the gauntlet of their disapproving glares.
Outside the church, I passed a statue of Philomena, the patron saint of lost causes. She seemed to be gazing down at me, pity in her eyes.
Sorry, kiddo, I could almost hear her saying. Wish I could help, but you’re too much of a lost cause, even for me. Try Bernadette over at Lourdes.
Then I trudged to my car and drove home in a cloud of humiliation and assorted desserts, leaving chocolate stains on the seat of my Corolla that I have to this day.
Chapter Thirteen
For two blissful seconds the next morning I had no memory of the Girlfriends debacle, but then it all came rushing back to me like an overflowing septic tank.
What was wrong with me, getting into a food fight with a twelve-year-old? I was a failure as a volunteer and a disgrace to freelance writer/private eyes everywhere.
What’s more, I’d totally scotched things with Tyler, and had about as much chance of getting a writing gig from Sister Mary Agnes as I had of fitting into Angel’s size 0 jeans. Which, incidentally, I never did take with me when I left. So the little brat would get to wear them, after all.
Oh, well. I had to keep reminding myself that if I hadn’t been out in Glendale, I would never have discovered Garth’s killer.
I made up my mind to forget about last night’s fiasco and get back to Garth’s murder, which, after what I’d just been through, was beginning to look like a ride in the wine country.
I put in another call to DiMartelli, but he wasn’t in. The desk sergeant told me he was expected around noon, and I planned to be there the minute he walked in the door. Willard Cox would be convicted and serving a life sentence before the good lieutenant ever returned my call, and I was determined to tell him my story.
After a gourmet breakfast of Pop Tarts and Pancreas Entrails (the entrails were for Prozac), I got dressed and drove over to my dry cleaner. I figured I might as well get some errands done while I waited for DiMartelli to show up.
The clerk had a hearty chuckle when I asked him if he could get eggnog/éclair/brownie/chocolate mousse stains off my cashmere sweater and suede boots. Yes, indeed. Just about broke the meter on his giggle-o-meter.
I bid him a haughty good-bye and was heading back to my car with my ruined clothing when I realized I hadn’t filled Ethel Cox in on what I’d discovered at the mall. She had no idea that, thanks to yours truly, her husband would soon be out of jail. So I decided to make a quick pit stop at Hysteria Lane and tell her the good news.
“Sweet little Cathy Janken?” Ethel blinked in surprise. “A killer?”
We were seated across from each other in her living room, where I’d just finished telling her about my adventures at The Cap Shack.
“Absolutely,” I nodded. “She’s having an affair with another man and wanted out of the marriage. So she sabotaged the roof, then later planted her specially ordered roofer’s cap in Willard’s toolbox to frame him for the murder.”
“Oh, dear.” Ethel shook her head in dismay. “That’s just awful. To kill her own husband, and then to blame poor Willard.”
Clearly she hadn’t glommed onto the plus side of the story.
“Don’t you see, E
thel? As soon as I tell the police how Cathy Janken aka Claudia Jamison ordered that roofer’s cap, Willard will be off the hook.”
“Do you really think the police will let him go?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Oh, Jaine! That’s wonderful!” And for the first time since this mess began, I saw a smile on her face. “How can Willard and I ever thank you?”
Just seeing her smile was thanks enough. After my dismal failure as an L.A. Girlfriend, I was happy to finally bring joy to someone’s life.
“I know!” she said. “Let’s celebrate with some tea and homemade brownies.”
You’d think after last night’s flying dessert-a-thon I’d never be able to look at another brownie again, but you’d be wrong.
“Sure,” I said, as always unable to resist the lure of chocolate.
“Make yourself comfy, sweetheart,” she said, bustling off to the kitchen, “while I make the tea!”
Alone in the room, I got up to admire the Coxes’ stately Christmas tree in the corner, heavily laden with elaborate reindeer ornaments. With any luck, Willard would soon be home to celebrate his reindeer-themed Christmas.
I wandered over to the fireplace, where a single stocking hung from the mantel, embroidered with the name “Pumpkin.” Poor Pumpkin, I sighed. Clearly Ethel was having trouble letting go of her beloved pet.
I was just about to head back to the sofa when I noticed an airline ticket lying on the mantel. Snoop that I am, I picked it up and peeked at it. It was a round trip ticket to Bermuda, in Ethel’s name, leaving Christmas day.
How odd. Why would Ethel be going to Bermuda at a time like this? Maybe she had relatives there and was going for emotional support. Still, it was strange she’d be leaving Willard alone in his time of crisis.
And then I saw something else on the mantel, something that sent a chill down my spine. It was a brochure for a quaint bed and breakfast. It wasn’t the inn itself that jolted me. In fact, it looked like a very lovely place. No, what made the little hairs on my neck stand at attention was the name of the inn: The Claudia Jamison House.