Homicide for the Holidays

by Cheryl Honigford

  “And then when your father died like that at precisely the right moment to save everyone, to save himself—his reputation, at least… Well, I decided to chalk it up to divine intervention, I suppose.”

  Vivian’s mouth worked silently. Her father’s death had been divine intervention. An exquisitely timed heart attack. “I don’t believe that,” she said. “I can’t believe that.”

  Occam’s razor, she thought. That’s what Charlie had said, hadn’t he? Uncle Freddy’s your man. He may not have taken the money from the drawer, but he had killed her father. She was certain.

  “So my father dies and saves the day for everyone—including you. You get to go on with your life without a blemish on you. You get to continue your successful career. You get to be a judge.” Her voice was rising in pitch, becoming shrill.

  “Now, Viv, calm down. I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick here…”

  “And Della knows what you did, even if she doesn’t realize it. That plant… It wasn’t the cleaners that destroyed it. And then you tried to kill her for it… Oh, you didn’t do it yourself, but you hired someone to push her in front of that streetcar.”

  “What… Viv, what are you talking about? I did no such thing.”

  “And you cut the brake lines on Martin’s car.”

  “Brake lines?”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Freddy.”

  He shook his head, blue eyes wide. He stepped toward her, his arms straight out in front of him like he were dealing with a rabid animal. Vivian raised her arm, and he lunged suddenly at her, grabbing her arm as she lowered it to strike.

  “Vivian,” he pleaded, his voice a gasp. “Stop.” He grabbed her roughly around the waist, pinning one arm to her side. She flailed out blindly with the other, her fingers snagging something from the mantel. She held it above her head and then let down with as much force as she could muster, watching her mother’s favorite china Pekingese shatter with a satisfying crash against the back of Freddy’s head. Then she watched his eyes roll back as he slumped to the floor unconscious.

  The front door flew open with a bang, and Charlie strode into the room, revolver in hand. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  Vivian’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her hands covered her thudding heart.

  “I think I killed Freddy,” she said finally, her eyes fixed on the motionless form on the parlor rug.

  Holstering his gun, Charlie crouched by the unconscious man. He put his hand in front of Uncle Freddy’s mouth and paused. “He’s still breathing,” he said. “But we need to call an ambulance.”

  Charlie jumped up and ran to the hall telephone. He ordered an ambulance from the operator in a staccato voice and returned to Vivian’s side. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Uncle Freddy, still motionless, his chest barely rising and falling.

  “I think he killed Father.” She shivered. “And he didn’t want anyone to know, so he attacked me. He tried to…” She broke off in a sob.

  Charlie followed Vivian’s glance toward the remains of the china Pekingese on the living room rug. Uncle Freddy groaned, and Vivian turned away from the horrible sight, burying her face in Charlie’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and held her in silence until she said, her voice muffled against his overcoat, “I thought you left.”

  “I did,” he said gruffly. “I got a block away before I turned back. I was coming up the front stairs when I heard the crash.”

  Vivian sniffed, and Charlie nudged her with a clean handkerchief. She took it and wiped her eyes. He’d come back for her after all. And thank God he had.

  There was a rumbling on the stairs, and soon Everett burst through the doorway. He stopped short, his eyes wide upon seeing Freddy laid out on the rug. His eyes darted back and forth between Vivian and Uncle Freddy’s motionless form.

  “Jesus. What happened?” Before Vivian could answer, Everett’s eyes shifted to Charlie. “And who the hell are you?”

  Vivian buried her face in Charlie’s chest and closed her eyes. Where on earth did she begin?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Vivian left Charlie and Everett to watch over Freddy and wait for the ambulance while she hurried out the back door to retrieve the ledger. She hoped Freddy hadn’t already taken it. Without it, she and Charlie couldn’t prove anything. Without it, he might walk free of her father’s murder. She pulled the house key from her pocket and went to use it, but the front door was already ajar. She swallowed. So Freddy had already been here. Her stomach sank. She pushed the door open with her fingertips, unease crawling up her spine.

  All was dark. She stood in the open doorway for a moment. There was a sound. Footsteps. Upstairs. The sound of a drawer being opened and closed. Vivian’s breath caught in her throat. She should turn and run, go back to the front house. Tell Charlie. But she couldn’t move.

  Something shifted on the landing at the top of the stairs. A form came into view. A man. In her house. Still, she was rooted to the spot. She glanced over her shoulder at the main house, the homey light of the kitchen window a few yards away. She could scream, she decided. Yes, of course. She turned back to the landing, hitched in her breath, and then let it out in a rush.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  The man’s face had come into view as he made his way down the stairs. It was Martin.

  Then before he could answer, she saw what he was holding, and the truth hit her like a punch to the stomach. She wasn’t crazy. Someone had been following her, and someone had been here before looking for that ledger. The night she’d scraped her hand. The night she noticed the coat-tree was out of place. The man in the flat cap had been following her. He’d pushed Della in front of that streetcar. All for Martin. It had been Martin all along.

  “Where is the statement?” he whispered as he limped toward her. His eyes were wild in the dim room.

  “Statement?”

  “Viv, please. I tried to stop it from ever coming to this, but I need that statement your father wrote out—the one he was going to give to the feds.”

  “I don’t have any statement.”

  “I think you do, and it’s important that you give it to me. It’s not in this ledger. It has to be somewhere. Is it in the safe-deposit box?”

  He limped closer, and she instinctively backed up and raised her hands in front of her as if he’d been about to strike her. Then it all became clear.

  “You killed him,” she whispered.

  Martin’s mouth opened. He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I understand everything.” Everything she’d just accused Freddy of had been done by Martin. Freddy had been telling her the truth. After those men had gone to Freddy, they’d gone to Martin, asking him to do the same thing. Martin was a kid then. He wasn’t as strong as Freddy. He couldn’t have stood up to anyone. Her legs gave out, and she sat heavily in the chair next to the radio.

  He hadn’t even had the guts to do it himself, or be there when it happened. He’d let Vivian give the drink with the poison in it to Father and then sent Della to make sure the deed had been done. Martin had used her and Della. He’d had the temerity to flirt with both of them. He’d played with their emotions, knowing all the time what he’d done. How far would he have let things go? And had that been the point—keep your enemies close? How close would he have kept both of them to prevent anyone from finding out? He’d been having lunch with Freddy every month, keeping Della on a string so that he could get information. That’s how he knew Vivian was asking questions.

  “You had that man follow me. He told you about that ledger, and you had him try to take it from me on the street that day. He told you about everything I was doing. He chased me down the street. He pushed Della in front of that streetcar.”

  Martin shook his head, but he didn’t seem surprised by the accusation. He’d done it, Vivian thought
. He’d done all of it.

  He held one hand out to her, and she flinched away. Vivian saw hurt in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the sound of sirens broke in the air. Martin’s head jerked to the front window. He stood perfectly still for a moment, listening. Then he turned abruptly, still clutching the ledger, and rushed off through the front door, leaving it standing open.

  Vivian didn’t follow him. She hadn’t the energy to stand up from the chair. Statement, she thought. What on earth was he talking about?

  There was scuffling outside in the courtyard. A muffled curse, then shouting—sounds of a fistfight. Vivian finally found her strength and moved to peek out the front window. In the dim light of the courtyard, she could two men wrestling. Then Martin was restrained on the ground, his face pushed into the dirty snow. The hair of the man lying on top of him flashed a muted orange in the moonlight. Everett.

  Vivian stumbled backward and sat back down in the chair.

  Statement. What statement could he mean? Her mind worked as the sound of the sirens grew closer. When the sirens stopped with a screech of the brakes in front of the house, the piece clicked into place without effort. She didn’t know what the statement was, but she knew where it was.

  • • •

  Vivian flipped on the bedside lamp. She stood for a moment, stunned at the scene. Martin had destroyed her room. He’d pulled the drawers out of the dresser and strewn her clothes about so that they littered every visible surface. Her eyes fell on the contents of her intimates drawer dumped unceremoniously near the radiator. She was repulsed that Martin had been anywhere near her underthings. He’d shredded her pillows, making ugly gashes across the covers with a pocketknife. Tiny white feathers floated up toward her as she pressed down on them. The bed had been stripped, the mattress flipped up and set half off the frame on a diagonal.

  For a moment, she thought the statement might be gone. Maybe Martin had found it and taken it, not realizing what he had. If he had, it would be over. Then she crouched and looked under the bed. She exhaled as she pulled the doll out by its rigid composite legs. She held it for a moment in her cupped palms, feeling the weight of its little body in her hands. She stared down into that insipid, gap-toothed smile as her fingertips traced the molded curl springing from its forehead.

  Topsy, the Kewpie doll her father had won for her so many years ago at the ring toss. Topsy that she’d slept with every night since. Topsy that had calmed her hammering heart the other night when she’d been convinced that someone had been waiting to do her in the second she closed her eyes. And Topsy, the Top-C from the missing page of her father’s appointment book.

  She exhaled and yanked the frilly dress over the doll’s head and tossed it onto the mattress. She flipped the doll over and considered its molded celluloid body for a moment, tilting her head to the side and bringing the doll close her nose, examining it from every possible angle. She slid her fingertips over the smooth surface. Nothing. It was unblemished. She slumped onto the bed, staring into the doll’s wide, unblinking eyes. She picked up the frilly, pink polka-dotted dress, and it crunched under her fingers. She paused and squeezed it in her palm again. Yes, it crunched. There was something inside the doll’s dress. She flipped the dress inside out and gasped at the tiny square of fabric that had been sewn inside with ragged, uneven stitches. It was obviously done by someone not adept at the task. She lunged for the sewing kit Martin had tossed to the floor and pulled the tiny silver scissors from the box. Then she inserted the tip of the scissors into threads and tore the patch away. A tiny folded square of paper fell into her open palm.

  She stared at it for a long moment, the mutilated remains of Topsy’s dress in one hand, the square of cream stationery in the other. She could hear a commotion now at the main house, men’s voices raised in excitement. Charlie would come to see about her soon.

  She tossed the dress onto the bed and opened the sheet of paper. Her eyes scanned down the lines in father’s precise hand, each word hitting her like a fresh punch to the solar plexus. She read it twice through before comprehension dawned on her. It was a confession, and it was worse than anything she could have ever imagined.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Vivian was sitting at the kitchen table in the coach house, staring into a cup of coffee gone cold when there was a knock on the door. She glanced at the clock—8:14 a.m. She and Everett had spent the night explaining things to their mother. That had been a horribly tough conversation. Her marriage to her beloved husband had been a lie. Oskar, Freddy, Martin, Mrs. Graves…all lying to her for years. Vivian had just left Julia to think things over, but she couldn’t sleep herself. She’d jumped at every noise, terrified that Martin had somehow escaped police custody and come to finish her off. It was irrational. She’d seen the look in his eyes before he’d run off. He was mortified by what he’d done. Maybe he hadn’t done what she suspected after all? Maybe he’d had nothing to do with her father’s death. Her stomach constricted at the idea.

  She stood, tightened the tie on her pink chenille robe, and headed to the front door. There was no time to change, and frankly, she didn’t have the energy.

  Charlie stood on the doorstep, his brow wrinkled in concern under his gray fedora.

  “Sorry to call so early. Did I wake you?” He eyed her warily. She knew she looked a fright in her robe. She watched him take in her unkempt hair, her smeared mascara.

  “No.” She sighed. “I haven’t slept. Come in.” She turned her back on him and started toward the living room where she slumped onto the sofa.

  “Gilfoy confessed.”

  Vivian sighed again, her eyes trained on the ceiling. She suddenly felt like crying. She’d tried to trick herself into believing otherwise, but she’d known the second she’d seen that look of exquisite guilt on his face the evening before. “Of all people… Why, Charlie? Why did he do it?” But she already knew the answer. He did it because he had to. He did it because he’d had no choice.

  Charlie moved toward her, his hat held awkwardly in his hands, but he didn’t sit next to her.

  “Threats, intimidation. They’d told him if he didn’t kill Arthur, then Arthur’s whole family, your whole family, would go.” Charlie’s hand flipped up toward the ceiling, miming an explosion. “And on top of that, they’d ruin Gilfoy’s promising career.”

  “They tried that with Freddy too. He told me last night. That’s why I thought… Well, that’s why he’s in the hospital with a concussion. I guess I put two and two together and got five.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I know that.” Vivian fussed with fringe on the pillow next to her. “I guess Freddy told me the truth after all. He refused them. So they hedged their bets and went to Martin, and he was weak enough to do it.”

  Charlie nodded, frowning.

  “Mrs. Graves told me that my father came home that day after lunch for some bicarbonate of soda. He wasn’t feeling well. My father was notorious for indigestion. Likely Martin had convinced him to eat something he shouldn’t to make it seem like he was having chest pains. Della told me she’d noticed that afternoon. She’d seen my father clutching at his chest.”

  “Setting the scene for a sudden, devastating heart attack.”

  “Anyway, my father stopped here after lunch, and though Mrs. Graves didn’t remember seeing Martin, he must have been here. Mrs. Graves had just made the pitcher of Bloody Marys. My father was a creature of habit, and if anyone knew that, it was Martin. He slipped the odollam into the pitcher…and then all he had to do was leave and wait for me to hand the drink to my father when he came home from work…” Her throat constricted suddenly, and she couldn’t say any more.

  Vivian finally looked up, catching Charlie’s eye. She noticed then that he wasn’t looking great either. Red-rimmed eyes, a day’s growth of dark stubble. He’d been up all night. For her.

  “And what doctor i
n Chicago, Illinois, would ever think to look for a tropical poison in someone’s system—especially someone under a lot of stress and a prime target for a heart attack?” he said. “Do you think Della was in on it?”

  Vivian thought of Della at the kitchen door that night. Della’s horror-stricken face on remembering her father’s death. Hearing that her prized plant killed her boss and that her beloved Martin had used her that way might finish her off.

  “No. I think Martin used her though. He knew Della thought he was the bee’s knees. He charmed his way into getting knowledge of that poison. He set her up as a secondary witness to my father’s chest pains all that day. And then he sent her over that evening to make sure the deed had been done.”

  Charlie shook his head. “That rat.”

  “What about Mr. Graves? Was the accident truly an accident?”

  “Gilfoy claims it was. He said Mr. Graves knew what he’d done and they were arguing about it, and then the car skidded on the curve, and they were headed for the lamppost, and wham.”

  Vivian shook her head. “I don’t know if I believe that. I don’t know what to believe anymore.” After all, she’d believed Martin when he’d told her that story about his brake lines. Why wouldn’t she? She hadn’t suspected him of anything. And all that interest he’d paid her, asking her when her shows were, subtly marking her whereabouts… It was only to make sure she’d be out of the house so he could search her things.

  “Had you suspected Gilfoy?”

  Vivian shook her head. She felt so stupid. She had fallen for it.

  “Surely he knew that. Then why didn’t he just let things go? There wasn’t anything to tie him to your father’s death.”

  “There was the odollam. And there was Della—whether or not she realized she knew something she shouldn’t. And there was something else to tie him to more than my father’s death. That’s why he was here ransacking my place last night.” Vivian’s eyes flicked around the room. It was still in disarray.