Upon a Midnight Clear

by Catherine Mulvany

  He wove his way through the party goers and up the stairs. The festivities were still going strong, though the party seemed to have shifted into low gear. Several couples were dancing to “White Christmas.”

  Upstairs, a ruby-red Turkish carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps. The interior walls were hung with a collection of colorful antique quilts that was probably worth more than he earned in a good year. Evidently mystery writers were well compensated for their work.

  To his surprise, the heavy wooden door to the master bedroom was locked. He rattled the knob a second time just to be sure.

  “Just a minute,” came the muffled response from inside. A man’s voice.

  Dixon froze with his hand on the doorknob. What the hell was going on?

  A few seconds later the door swung open. Mark Jordan stood there, tucking his shirt back into the waistband of his trousers. He backed away from the door, allowing Dixon to enter. “Sorry. I was using the john in here. There’s no lock on the bathroom door, and I didn’t want to get caught with my pants down.” His smile was designed to charm, but it failed to impress Dixon.

  “I came for Alexandra’s coat.”

  “Alexandra’s coat? Who are you?” Jordan eyed him suspiciously.

  “Dixon Yano. I work for Ms. Roundtree.”

  A supercilious smile played at the corners of Jordan’s mouth. “Oh, right. The private dick.”

  Dixon met Jordan’s smirk with a stony stare.

  Jordan was the first to look away.

  Score one for the hired gun.

  Jordan cleared his throat. “Don’t tell me Alex is leaving already.” He frowned. “I wanted to introduce her to Bill and Maureen Dennison, influential new clients of the firm.”

  “I think she’s had about all of the firm she can stand for one night. Your boss just made a very clumsy pass at her.”

  A petulant frown still creasing his forehead, Mark Jordan studied himself in the mirror above the dresser, then ran a hand over his already sleek head. “You’d think a grown woman could handle one amorous drunk,” he muttered.

  Dixon had a sudden murderous impulse to sink his fingers in that shiny hair and slam Mark Jordan’s classic chiseled features into the wall. “Does Alexandra normally carry a purse?” he asked instead. He’d located his leather jacket and her coat, the same one she’d worn to his office earlier, but the big black leather purse wasn’t among those stacked on the bed.

  “Sometimes. Other times she shoves her wallet in her pocket.” Jordan seemed fascinated by his own reflection. He rubbed at a smudge just below his lower lip.

  The wallet was right where Jordan had predicted it would be. Smug bastard. Staring with loathing at the back of Jordan’s perfectly styled blond head, Dixon wondered how many times the lawyer had driven Alexandra home, how many times he’d stayed the night in the apartment over Gemini Gifts.

  Clenching his teeth as he tried to suppress the image of Alexandra in Jordan’s arms, Dixon glanced down, noticing something that had slipped between two of the lacy pillows piled at the head of the bed. He bent to retrieve the shiny bauble, an earring shaped like a miniature Christmas ornament.

  Jordan went very still. He wasn’t primping any longer. He wasn’t even looking at himself. All his attention was trained on the reflection of the gaudy earring in Dixon’s hand.

  What excuse would Jordan make, Dixon wondered, if he said he had to use the john? The redhead was hiding in the bathroom. He was sure of it.

  Damn it all to hell and back, this Jordan character was one pitiful excuse for a man. Cheating on his fiancée. Cheating on his fiancée with her own cousin. Cheating on his fiancée with her own cousin in said fiancée’s mother’s bedroom. The whole messy scenario played like something off a damn soap opera.

  He dropped the earring in the center of the bedspread. “Looks like somebody lost something.”

  “What?” Jordan pretended to notice it for the first time.

  “An earring, I think.”

  “Probably Reggie’s.” Mark Jordan’s laugh was forced. “Her collection of costume jewelry rivals her collection of hats.”

  “She must have dropped it when she was getting dressed.”

  “Probably.” A self-satisfied smirk twisted Jordan’s mouth.

  Once again Dixon felt an almost uncontrollable urge to slap the jerk around. He was no bully, never had been, but every damn thing about Jordan rubbed him the wrong way. Everything up to and including the fact that he was engaged to Alexandra Roundtree.

  “It’s snowing harder.” Alex eyed the flurries in dismay.

  “Just in time for Christmas.” Dixon helped her down the steps of the deck.

  “I hate snow. At least I hate driving in it.”

  “Don’t worry. My Jeep has studded snow tires. I’ll get you home safely.”

  Safe. That word again. She placed her gloved hand on his sleeve. “Thanks.”

  He stopped, staring down at her for a moment in silence. Then he covered her hand with his own. “Don’t mention it. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

  She smiled faintly. “I hope you’re right, Mr. Yano.”

  “Not Mr. Yano.”

  “What?”

  “The name’s Dixon.”

  Her smile grew a little wider. “And I’m Alexandra, Alex if you prefer.”

  “Alexandra,” he repeated, then again, softly, “Alexandra.”

  Her name sounded almost exotic the way he said it.

  Dixon negotiated the hill without incident in his four-wheel-drive vehicle. Alexandra must have felt secure with him behind the wheel. Either that or she was so terrified she couldn’t bear to watch the road. At any rate, she leaned against the headrest and shut her eyes.

  He tuned the radio to a local soft-rock station and she began humming along to a song. They were at the city limits before either of them said a word.

  “You—” started Alex.

  “How—” Dixon began at the same time. “Sorry. You first.”

  “It wasn’t anything important. I was just wondering how you ended up with a Japanese name. As I mentioned when we first met, you don’t look Japanese.”

  He smiled. “My mom’s Swedish. Dad’s half-Heinz fifty-seven, half-Japanese.”

  “Are you related to Hiroshi Yano?”

  “He’s my grandfather. You know him?”

  “No, Mark just asked me if there was a connection.”

  Dixon’s tone was dry. “Grandfather has Tollman, Loomis, and Taylor on retainer, though after tonight I may suggest he take his business elsewhere.”

  “Ed Loomis is a pig.” She drew a long, unsteady breath. “What were you going to say?”

  Dammit, the quaver was back in her voice again. He hadn’t meant to remind her of Loomis. “Just wondered if you wanted to stop off at the grocery store for anything before we head home.” He wished the words back as soon as they were spoken. He’d made it sound as if they were living together. Which they were, of course, though not in the way he’d accidentally implied.

  But if Alexandra thought he was presuming, she didn’t mention it. She simply shook her head no and subsided into silence.

  Was she brooding over the ugly episode with Loomis? Or worrying about what conclusions people might leap to when they learned she’d hired a live-in bodyguard? “What did your fiancé say when you told him I’d be protecting you around the clock?” He pulled into the center turn lane on Idaho Avenue and flicked on his right-turn signal. Enough snow had fallen to blur the lines marking the lanes. The windshield wipers click-clacked monotonously as he waited for her response.

  “Nothing.”

  The red light changed to a green arrow and he turned onto Oregon. Downtown traffic was light this time of night. A couple bars were still open, one theater, the Basque restaurant across from the auto shop, not much else.

  “Pretty open-minded guy, your fiancé.” He passed his office. Gemini Gifts was four blocks south on the same side of the street.

  “I didn�
�t actually tell him you were staying at my place.” She shrugged. “The subject never came up. Turn up here at the corner of Fourth Avenue. If you park in the lot behind the store, we can go in the back door.”

  The decorations at this end of the street put his block to shame. In addition to the cheesy lamppost angels put up by the city, all the store owners had hung their own decorations. The place was ablaze with tinsel and blinking lights. Predictably, Gemini Gifts sparkled even more intensely than its neighbors.

  He turned left on Fourth and pulled into the public lot that filled the half block between the stores that lined Oregon and the railroad tracks. A bum—Myron?—was digging through the Dumpster behind Marker’s Fine Furniture. Otherwise, the place was deserted.

  He parked close to the building. Alexandra got out on the passenger’s side. Dixon locked the Jeep before following her to the door.

  She looked up at his approach, her eyes huge.

  “What is it?” Tension knotted his gut.

  “The door’s open, and I know I locked it when I left. I remember because I had trouble getting the key out. It sticks sometimes.”

  “Stay back. Someone may be inside.”

  “Maybe we should call the police,” she whispered.

  Dixon trained the pencil flashlight from his key chain on the lock. “No sign of forced entry. Whoever it was had a key. Are you positive you locked up? It’s been a pretty traumatic day. It’s easy to screw up when you’re upset.”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Okay.” He handed her his keys. “Call the cops. The cell phone’s in the car.”

  “Don’t go in by yourself. Promise me.”

  “I won’t. The cops’d have my license if I tainted a crime scene. Did you touch the doorknob?”

  She shook her head. “I was too scared to go inside once I realized that the door was already open a crack.” She stared at the knob, shivering uncontrollably.

  “The cops,” he reminded her.

  “Right.” She seemed to pull herself together. “Right.”

  He watched her start toward the Jeep before he loped over to the Dumpster at the other end of the block.

  The bum was still there prodding through the trash, apparently in search of cans.

  “Hey, fella! How long you been out here?”

  The man glanced up at Dixon’s approach, his eyes rheumy and vague. “What year is it?”

  It took a second or two for Dixon to realize the bum was laughing, not gasping his last breath. The closer he got, the worse the smell, a noxious blend of garbage, filth, and vomit. Dixon wasn’t sure if it was emanating from the Dumpster or the bum. Maybe both.

  “You see anybody hanging around the gift shop earlier tonight?”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  Dixon pulled a ten from his wallet. “This jog your memory?”

  The old man scratched himself with the dowel he’d been using to poke through the trash. “I can’t say for sure. It’s still a little hazy.”

  Dixon shrugged. He didn’t know whether the old man had seen anything or not, but he wasn’t in the mood for playing games or shelling out any more cash. “The lady just called the cops. Talk to me or talk to them. Take your choice.”

  “Lord o’ mercy, boy, not the cops. They’ll drag me down to the shelter and I’ll have all them damn do-gooders prayin’ over me like I was Jack the Ripper.” He snatched the ten bucks and stashed it in an inside pocket of his voluminous overcoat. “Whaddaya wanna know?”

  “Just if you saw anybody suspicious hanging around the back of the gift store.”

  “I dunno as I’d call him suspicious.”

  “Who? Who did you see?”

  “You’re not gonna believe me.” Using the end of the grubby dowel, the bum scratched a question mark in the snow covering the pavement.

  “Who?”

  The old duffer’s lips stretched in a toothless grin that was scary enough to give a grown man nightmares. He cackled like a Halloween witch. “Santy Claus,” he said.

  FOUR

  “Santa Claus?” Officer Rios arched an eyebrow. “Gimme a break.”

  Dixon frowned. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’d swear the bum was telling the truth.”

  “Why? Because you paid him ten bucks? Old Myron’d tell you it was ninety degrees in the shade if that’s what he thought you wanted to hear.”

  “That’s the thing, Cesar. He didn’t know what I wanted to hear.”

  Officer Rios leaned against the cash desk near the back of the main showroom at Gemini Gifts. He’d checked the place thoroughly, but found no evidence of an intruder, no sign of a break-in. “My guess is you left the door open yourself, Ms. Roundtree. It happens all the time. People get in a hurry.”

  “She remembers locking the door, Cesar. She remembers specifically because the lock gave her a hard time.”

  Alexandra chewed at her lip. “Maybe it was the same Santa.”

  “What same Santa?”

  Dixon slapped his thigh. “That’s it! I bet you’re right.” He turned to Cesar. “Alexandra mentioned the mugging in her statement yesterday. Remember? Last week in the mall someone dressed in a Santa suit snatched her purse.”

  Cesar nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, a mugger in a Santa suit. Okay. Makes sense. Maybe old Myron wasn’t spinning fairy tales or having drunken delusions either. You’ve got no sign of forced entry. But then, if Santa got her purse, he would have her address and her keys too. Still doesn’t explain why nothing’s missing, though. You’re sure nothing’s missing?”

  Alexandra shrugged, looking around helplessly at the well-stocked store. Gemini Gifts was filled to the rafters with Christmas merchandise, everything from ornate music boxes from Switzerland to hand-stitched Christmas quilts from the Appalachians. “It’s impossible to say for certain, but I know all of the more expensive items are still here. And upstairs, everything seems to be just the way I left it too. The antique silver’s accounted for and my few pieces of good jewelry.”

  “So why did he break in?” Cesar Rios stared at a crystal angel that hung suspended above a Nativity scene. “And why did he leave the door hanging open when he left?”

  “He had to leave in a hurry?” suggested Alexandra. “Maybe he heard Myron banging around in the Dumpster and panicked.”

  “Or maybe it’s a subtle threat,” Dixon said. “Maybe he wants you to know he can get in whenever he feels like it. He wants you to feel vulnerable.”

  Alexandra’s laugh was shaky. “If so, he succeeded.”

  “Get the locks changed first thing tomorrow,” Cesar advised. “You should have done that already. I’m off duty”—he checked his watch—“as of ten minutes ago. But I’ll have the officer on graveyard keep an eye on the place for the rest of the night. I honestly don’t expect jolly old Saint Nick to do an encore performance, but with the crazies you never know.”

  “I’ll be here,” Dixon told him. “Anybody wants to get at her, they’re going to have to go through me.”

  Cesar shot him a look.

  Dixon knew what he was thinking. Since when did a class act like Alexandra Roundtree hang with a gumshoe like Dixon Yano? Since never, but he wasn’t about to give Cesar the satisfaction of hearing him admit it.

  “Thanks for responding so quickly, man.” Dixon didn’t actually shove Cesar toward the door, but his intent was clear.

  “Glad to be of service.” Ignoring Dixon’s unsubtle hint, Cesar turned his attention to Alexandra. “Ms. Roundtree?” He took her right hand between his two big paws and gave her one of the most blatantly sensual smiles Dixon had ever seen. Cesar fancied himself Brunswick’s answer to Antonio Banderas.

  Gritting his teeth, Dixon remembered all the times in the past he’d watched in grudging admiration as Cesar had used similar moves to charm a susceptible female.

  “Yes?” Alexandra’s lips curved in a smile.

  Was it just Dixon’s imagination or did she sound breathless? If so, he could hardly blame her. She wouldn�
�t be the first woman—or the hundredth—to fall victim to Cesar’s Latin charm.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” Cesar’s voice was a throaty purr that put Dixon’s hackles up. “You can reach me through the department or call me at home. My number’s in the book.” He released her hand slowly, as if he were memorizing the texture of her skin. As he turned to go he flicked a gloating sideways glance at Dixon.

  Grimly, Dixon wondered how much jail time old Judge Brenner’d give him for assaulting a cop. Anything short of a week would be worth it.

  Alexandra’s soft voice intruded on his speculations. “Thanks again, Officer Rios. It’s good to know there are men like you protecting the city.”

  Oh, puh-leeze!

  Alexandra escorted Dixon’s former friend to the back door.

  Dixon stayed behind, only half listening to their conversation. Cesar didn’t miss a trick; the man was a shameless flirt. Not that it mattered this time. Alexandra Roundtree wasn’t interested in either Cesar Rios or Dixon Yano. She already had a fiancé, scuzzball that he was.

  Dixon stared glumly at the crystal angel, thinking his mother might like something like that for Christmas until he noticed the discreet price sticker on the sole of the angel’s bare foot. Hot damn! Not for fifty bucks, she wouldn’t. He stepped back a pace to put a careful distance between himself and the fragile gewgaw. Like the sign above the door said: You break it, you buy it.

  “Watch out!” Alexandra warned.

  He spun around on his heel.

  “You nearly backed right over me.” Her eyes were dancing as if she found his clumsiness amusing, even endearing.

  Endearing was good. “Sorry,” he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “All this stuff”—he eyed the merchandise warily—“makes me nervous. I’m scared to death I’ll accidentally break something.” Something expensive.

  She nodded, smiling. “Most men react that way. Mandy and I call it the bull-in-the-china-shop syndrome. You seem to have a worse case than most, perhaps because you’re bigger than most.” She broke off, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. “Larger, I mean. That is, taller.” She stopped, breathing hard, as if she’d just run a sprint.