Most of the people in line ahead of me considered him a crusader. I wasn’t sure what I considered him except unhappy, and that was simply based on my gut feeling.
Just as we approached, Riley leaned forward and whispered, “Easy.” Just the feeling of his breath on my cheek was enough to send shivers scrambling down my spine.
All those shivers disappeared as I thrust my book at the man. “Sign, please.”
His head remained down, but his eyes flickered up at me. “Anything you’d like me to say?”
I shrugged. “Feliz Navidad?”
His eyes narrowed and he stroked his name over the page and pushed it toward me. His gaze was already on the person behind me in line. He wasn’t getting off the hook that easily.
“What do you think of everything happening around town?” I asked. I shifted so the man behind me couldn’t step forward. Finally, Oliver raised his head. I offered a wide grin.
He scowled. “I think someone’s trying to send a message.”
I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “It’s secretly you, isn’t it? It would be great publicity for your new book.”
His scowl deepened. “I prefer the word to the sword, ma’am.”
“If you hear who’s doing it, would you give me a call?” I slipped my business card toward him.
He stared at it a moment. “Gabby St. Claire? Crime scene cleaner? I’m not sure I understand the association.”
“What’s happening to Christmas is a crime,” I explained.
He stared—again. Finally, he reached into his pocket and handed me something. “Call me and we’ll talk.”
I raised my eyebrows and took his card. Then I flashed my most winning smile his way and thanked him.
He’d seemed helpful. Too helpful? I wasn’t sure.
But I planned on finding out.
Just before I slipped outside, a woman at the back of the line caught my eye. The owner of Chadwick’s on 21st—Mrs. Santa Claus’s sour twin sister.
I stored that information in the back of my mind. Maybe it would be useful later.
Chapter 5
It Came Upon a Midnight Crime
As soon as I got to the parking lot, I paused and dialed Oliver Nichols’s number. I couldn’t believe it when he answered on the third ring. “Oliver?”
“Yes?” I could hear the crowds of people around him still.
“This is Gabby St. Claire. You said to call you.”
“I just gave you my card ten minutes ago, Ms. St. Claire. I’m still doing my book signing.”
I glanced through the massive windows at the front of the store and saw that he’d spotted me. I offered a friendly wave. “You answer your phone during book signings? I’m pretty sure there’s some rule against that.”
“Listen, Ms. St. Claire, I’ll call you later. I would like to talk.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” I hung up and glanced at Riley, who leaned against his car with his arms crossed and a grin across his too-handsome-for-my-comfort face.
Riley shook his head at me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You did not just do that.”
“I did. We don’t really have any time to waste. There have been human remains left at crime scenes. I think that makes this matter more urgent.”
“Except nothing was left when they destroyed the manger outside our apartment. I wonder why.”
I shrugged. “Maybe destroying that was an afterthought.”
“You mean, maybe someone discovered you were at both of the previous two crime scenes and decided to send a message?”
“Or maybe they discovered that you were at both crime scenes.”
He sighed. “I just have a bad feeling about this.” He stood and stared at me a moment before finally asking, “Do you want to talk about this more over lunch?”
I was hungry now that he mentioned it. And cold. I really wanted to get out of this wind. “Sure thing.”
A few minutes later, we pulled up to The Happy Flounder, a restaurant overlooking the Elizabeth River in downtown Norfolk. We were seated in a booth at the upscale version of Long John Silvers. Riley ordered shrimp scampi, and I got a crab cake and fries. Neither of us would win the healthy eating award for the day. Before Riley could steer the subject into a safe topic, I opened Oliver Nichols’s book and scanned the chapter headings. Riley leaned in closer to look at the book. I caught a whiff of his spicy aftershave and flutters tickled my spine.
I shoved those feelings aside and stared at the pages. “He actually doesn’t seem as angry as Marvin did. He seems more like an intellectual.”
Riley’s elbows rested on the table, and he tilted his head in a casual manner that seemed awfully lawyer-ish. “So, you agree with his writings then?”
I closed the book and leaned back into the hard vinyl behind me. My gaze scanned the river behind Riley. Picture windows opened up the entire wall and the view was breathtaking. Of course, I always had a good view when Riley sat across from me.
Riley stared at me a moment, and my face flushed. I didn’t say that aloud did I? Please say I didn’t say that aloud.
Riley said nothing, so I assumed I’d kept my thoughts to myself and settled back into the matters at hand. “In order to have the separation of church and state, I don’t believe that we have to pretend like our country wasn’t founded on Christian principles. Christian or not, the Ten Commandments are a good moral foundation for anyone.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully. The waitress brought us both some water, and Riley shoved a black straw into his glass. “Well said.” He leaned closer, close enough that my traitorous heart sped. “Is it so hard for you to believe that the Son of God was born here on earth?”
“It’s such a dainty little notion, Riley. But, I really don’t know. I can probably accept that Jesus came to earth, but I just can’t picture the creator of the entire universe dying for a bunch of people who either don’t believe in him or who outright hate him.” I frowned, wondering if my answer disappointed him. I took a turn at stabbing the lemon in my water glass with my straw before shrugging. “That’s the truth.”
“I don’t want you to lie to me.”
“I just wish that faith came easily to me.”
“Faith is a choice I make every day, Gabby.”
“Really?” It just seemed like faith and believing and being good just came so easily to Riley.
“Really. Every believer has doubts sometimes. That’s what makes faith, faith—when you can overcome those doubts and still believe.” He did his head tilt again. “Did you ever believe in Santa Claus?”
I shook my head and ran my finger along the condensation on my glass. “Never.”
“Really?”
I nodded slowly. “Really.” We were saying that word a lot, weren’t we? “We didn’t have a chimney, for starters. I knew one man couldn’t deliver presents to millions of children in the course of mere hours. Even from a young age, I didn’t buy it.”
Riley leaned back and laughed. “I should have known your parents couldn’t get one past you. Even in elementary school, you had a knack for investigating. I love that.”
“How about you? Did your parents teach you about Santa?” I didn’t really know a lot about his parents. I imagined them to be uppity and morally superior, but then again, they’d raised such a great guy in Riley, maybe they weren’t.
“As a matter of fact . . . no, they didn’t.” He took a sip of his water.
I put my hand over my heart in mock drama. “They were that cruel? At least my parents tried.”
His smile told me that I hadn’t offended him. Thank goodness. “My parents thought they’d be lying to me if they told me a man in a red suit delivered my presents.”
“Do you wish they had? Do you wish you’d felt that magic of Christmas?”
“Not really. I mean, sure, it sounds like fun. But I respect them for keeping it real. They made sure that Christmas wasn’t all about gifts and getting and materialism.”
“Ho
w’d they do that?”
“We always delivered gifts to less fortunate families—nursing home residents, homeless shelters, foster care children. They also encouraged us to use our own money to buy gifts for others. And they were never extravagant. They didn’t indulge us or run up their credit card bills or wallow in commercialism. Christmas was about celebrating Jesus.”
The idea sounded nice, but what did it look like in reality? “And just how do you do that? By singing songs? By going to church?”
“Those things are good and worthy. But I think the best way to celebrate is by giving to others, by reflecting Christ’s love in that way.”
“Are you doing those things with your family this year?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure if I’m going to make it home or not. Besides, my parents may be headed up north to spend Christmas with my brother and his family.”
“You strike me as the type who wouldn’t miss Christmas with your family. You’d go over the river and through the woods.”
“Normally I would try to. But sometimes you have to make the best decision for yourself. I’m just getting this practice off the ground, and I’m not sure I can afford the time away. Plus, I promised to drop by the Brambleton Homeless Shelter and help serve food.”
The waitress set our steaming plates before us. Riley looked up at me as I grabbed my silverware. “Is it okay if I pray for us?”
“Of course.”
I closed my eyes and listened to his prayer. It sounded sincere, like he was talking to a real person and not just some imaginary friend. What would it be like to have a faith that real? To believe so firmly in something you couldn’t see or feel or touch? He said “amen,” and I opened my eyes.
Riley began twirling some pasta around his fork. “So what are your thoughts on everything so far?”
I picked up a fry. “Well, I think the Redskins are horrible this year, the weatherman is always wrong, that politics are annoying—”
He paused with his fork mid-bite. “On everything with the case, Gabby. Everything with the case.”
“Oh,” I said in mock realization. I jabbed my fry into the ketchup. “I don’t know. It’s kind of creepy, isn’t it? I keep trying to nail the M.O. of the person who would do this. It was one thing when they only destroyed some decorations. I mean, that wasn’t nice and all, but human remains? That’s weird. Someone’s trying to send a deeper message than I ever anticipated.”
“Vandalism is one thing, but this has turned into a murder investigation. Who would have that kind of fury?”
“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong direction. Maybe this isn’t about Christmas at all. Maybe this is about murder and they’re using symbols of Christmas to distract us.”
“Could be. Who’s on your radar so far?”
“There’s a man who heads up the Coalition Against Christmas and there’s Oliver Nichols. Beyond those two men, I don’t have any other suspects.”
“Those are two pretty good suspects, I’d say.”
I shrugged. “There’s less than a week until Christmas. So far, three crimes—that we know about—have been committed. First, it was the chicken wire nativity scene, then the church manger scene, and finally that manger in front of our apartment. What’s going to happen next?”
My cell phone rang. I glanced at my screen and then back up at Riley. “It’s Oliver Nichols.”
“You must have powers of persuasion.”
But did I? This almost seemed too easy. I put the phone to my ear and answered.
“Let’s meet.”
“I’m at The Happy Flounder. Wanna swing by?”
“Give me ten minutes.”
***
Twenty minutes later, Oliver Nichols showed up, just as “Holly, Jolly Christmas” began playing on the overhead. I wondered if he was going to bypass talking to us so he could complain to the manager?
Instead, he came right over to us, an almost angry energy in his quick, heavy steps. He’d donned a long black trench coat and had tucked a blue silky scarf around his neck that gave him a crazy rich person vibe.
He stood at the end of the table, staring at Riley on one side of the booth and me on the other. Finally, he grabbed a chair from an empty table, pulled it up between us, and straddled it. He folded his arms across the back as if he were modeling for a photo shoot.
“I’m not behind this,” he started.
I pushed away my empty plate. “I didn’t say you were.” Not directly, at least. Or did I? “Why did you want to meet with us?”
His gaze shifted over to me. “Because the police questioned me earlier. I need to prove that I’m innocent.”
I turned my palm up as I asked the question, “Why would they think you’re guilty?”
He glanced from side to side before his shoulders drooped from the exhaustion of carrying too much . . . guilt? “I like sending out letters.”
“Okay . . . ” Where was this going?
He sighed and made eye contact with me again. His shoulders drooped even farther. “I might have sent one to that church whose nativity scene was blown to shreds.”
Riley leaned forward, suddenly interested in the conversation. “What did this letter say exactly?”
Oliver’s face reddened. The waitress approached but he shooed her away and turned back to us. “I might have called them idiots. But that doesn’t mean I’m guilty.”
And the plot thickens . . . I didn’t say that aloud. At least, I didn’t think I did.
I laced my fingers together in front of me, trying to look professional and intimidating. “From what I’ve heard, Mr. Nichols, you’ve sent lots of nasty-grams out to people in this area.”
“I have, and I stand behind my letters. But I’m not a violent person.” He slapped the table so hard that our glasses jumped.
Riley shook his head, ever the unflustered one. “Why do you hate Christmas so much, Mr. Nichols? You’ve made it your life’s work to get any mention of Christ taken out of anything public. Why?”
“I don’t like having religion pushed down my throat.”
The same thing Marvin Harris had told me. Apparently a lot of atheists felt this way. I was going to tell him what I’d told Marvin. “Other people don’t like having your views pushed down their throats. Have you ever considered that?”
“We have freedom of speech and religion in this country. I don’t want my tax dollars paying for something that promotes a certain viewpoint. It’s unethical.” Oliver’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “Maybe you should talk to Marvin Harris with the Coalition Against Christmas?”
“As a matter of fact, I did talk to him.” Score one for Gabby.
“He’s a hothead. I’d put my efforts into investigating him.” He shook his head and raised a finger in the air, his voice becoming louder. “I do know this. I didn’t kill anyone.”
I don’t usually mind making scenes, but even I had to pause and glance around the restaurant to count just how many people were staring at us now. By my estimates that would be all of the twenty-three or so people in line of sight.
“So the police talked to you, you said?”
He lowered his voice. “Yes, they talked to me. I wouldn’t be here if it was just vandalism. Murder is another thing entirely. I’m a respected member of this community, and I plan to remain just that, Christmas or not.”
“Are you planning any more demonstrations this year?”
He scowled. “I’m not sure.”
“Might not be the best idea, huh?”
Or had he already done some demonstrations that he just hadn’t owned up to yet?
***
Just as I climbed into Riley’s car, anxious to rehash the conversation that had just taken place, my cell phone beeped again. I recognized the number as Chad’s. If he was taking time away from skiing, then it had to be serious.
“What’s up? Aren’t you supposed to be dashing through the snow or something?” I closed the door quickly, hoping to ward away the bitter breez
e that swept around us as it came over the waters of the Elizabeth River.
“Gabby, something’s been bothering me about that hair found at the crime scene.”
“Okay. What is it?” I pulled the seatbelt over my lap just as Riley cranked the engine and still-cold air began screaming through the vents.
“I think it belongs to a dead person.”
“I would agree.” Did he really have to call to tell me that? I shrugged at Riley, who stared at me with a “what’s going on?” expression as he blew on his fingers to keep them warm.
“No, no, hear me out. I think it belongs to someone who’s been dead, who’s been embalmed for that matter.”
Now he had my attention. “Why would you think that, Chad?”
“A couple of reasons. When someone’s been embalmed, their skin turns pinkish. It also retains the scent of formalin, the flushing fluid used in the embalming process. If the scalp was from someone who’d just died, there would still be blood. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I’m right.”
“Brilliant deductive reasoning, Sherlock. Maybe I should call Detective Adams.” I felt myself lighting up like a Christmas tree. I had to admit that I was truly impressed. I motioned for Riley to start driving back toward our apartments. He backed out, and we began cruising down the road.
“My guess is that he already knows. He just might not be sharing that information with you.”
I hated to admit that he was right. “I won’t know unless I talk to him. And, in case I didn’t tell you, you’re brilliant. At least, you are when you’re not playing with your toes.”
I filled Riley in before calling the detective.
Detective Adams answered on the first ring. “It’s your favorite Nosy Nelly.”
“Hi, Gabby.”
I smiled, stealing a glance at the outdoor ice skating rink outside of MacArthur Center Mall. I wish I felt as carefree as the smiling family sliding over the ice with their arms wrapped around each other. At least I had my case to investigate. My nosiness kept my mind occupied, if nothing else. “Detective, I have a theory that I wanted to pass along to you.”
It Came Upon a Midnight Crime Page 4