How the Finch Stole Christmas

by J. R. Ripley

  Mom looked up from the gingerbread man mold on the table in front of her. “Hello, dear. We’ve a dozen each to go, and then we’re done.”

  “That’s nice to hear. I dropped some samples off earlier for the manager.”

  “I know,” Mom said. “Ms. Dunnellon called and said they were perfect.”

  “She’s real anxious to get the rest,” Riley put in. He had the snowman mold filled with seed and was now adding some unshelled black-oil sunflower-seed buttons to its belly. “If you want, I can drive them over in my pickup later.” He wore a hideous green and red Christmas sweater featuring a drunken reindeer.

  “That would be great, Riley.” I patted him on the back. “Speaking of your pickup, would you mind if I borrow it to pick up a Christmas tree?”

  Riley turned to face her. “No, I don’t mind at all. But you’ve already got a tree.”

  “I know, but that’s for the store. It has been pointed out to me that we don’t have a tree in our apartment.”

  Mom smiled. “What a good idea. A Christmas tree in the living room will really liven things up.”

  “I’ll check with Derek and see what works for him,” I told Riley.

  “Derek?” Mom’s antenna went up.

  “Derek needs a tree, too. For his bachelor pad.”

  Riley cleared his throat.

  “What about you, Riley?” I inquired, picking up on his signal for attention. “Have you got a Christmas tree?”

  “Of course I do. You know I do. I always do.” Riley plucked bits of birdseed from his palm. “You haven’t come by to see it yet,” he added, under his breath.

  “And is the John Deere tractor ornament on it?”

  “It’s my tree topper.” He beamed. “Same as every year.”

  “I promise I’ll come by soon. Mom and I both will.”

  Mom readily agreed. “I’ll bring my raspberry poinsettia blossom cookies.” All my life, my mother’s been baking her raspberry blossom cookies for the holidays. I’d miss them if she really did move away for the winters.

  “Can anybody join this party?”

  We all turned.

  “Derek!” I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear and gave him a kiss. “We were just talking about you.”

  “All good, I hope?” He said hello to my mother and Riley.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Riley snorted.

  “Ignore him. What brings you here?”

  Derek was dressed casually in jeans, a black sweater, and a hooded parka. “I had the rest of the day off and thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to go get that Christmas tree now.”

  “Now? What about Maeve?”

  “She’s out of school. She’s hanging out with her Mom at the dress shop. We can stop and pick her up, if that works for you?”

  “Okay,” I said, “but there are a couple of other stops I’d like to make first.” I squeezed his hand. “If that works for you?”

  “Your wish is my command.” Derek bowed in my direction.

  Mom giggled. “Have fun, kids.”

  “Thanks. Come on.” I grabbed Derek’s hand and pulled. “Let me get my coat and hat out front and we can go.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Riley hollered.

  “Like what?” I stuck my head back around the corner.

  Riley raised his right hand and jiggled the set of keys in his fingers.

  “Right!” I hurried over and snatched them from him. I kissed his cheek. “We’ll get it back to you soon as we can!”

  “No hurry.”

  Cousin Riley’s red Chevy pickup was parked behind the shop. I handed the keys to Derek. The early eighties pickup had belonged to Riley’s father, Aunt Betty’s first husband, who had passed some years ago. The truck, and a truckful of memories, as Riley liked to say, were all his father had left behind. Riley loved the truck as if it were his only child.

  We climbed in and Derek turned the key in the ignition. “Where to first?”

  “Kim’s house,” I replied, dropping my purse on the floor.

  “Okay. What’s up?” Derek pulled out into traffic.

  “We’re going house hunting.”

  Derek turned quickly in my direction. “You’re looking for a house?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “You are.”

  “I am?”

  “Remember the other day in your apartment?” Derek grunted his confusion and I continued. “You told me you didn’t expect to live there forever.”

  “I believe we were talking about bricks and mortar,” he said with a grin. “I’m not in the market for a new house right now, Amy. I’ve barely gotten settled into the place.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I patted his arm. “Of course you are in the market for a new house. A new, old house, to be precise.”

  “That brings me back to my first question: I am?”

  I explained as Derek drove past the lake in the direction of Kim’s bungalow. In a matter of minutes we were at Kim’s door. Derek pulled the pickup into the driveway behind Kim’s sedan.

  “You want me to wait here?” he asked, as he eyed the house.

  “Nope. I want you to come inside. If I go in alone, she’ll just weasel out of coming, make up some sorry excuse or another.”

  Derek pushed open his door and stepped down. “And if I come in with you?”

  “She will still make up some sorry excuse or another,” I explained, climbing down from the passenger side, leaving my purse in the truck. “But with you there for muscle, we can kidnap her if we have to.”

  Derek’s laugh followed me to the back door. I had decided against knocking. I went straight for the spare key hidden under the flowerpot off the back porch, blew the dirt off it and stuck it in the kitchen door.

  “And we’re in,” I said with a grin.

  “As a lawyer,” Derek mumbled a step behind me, “I’m not sure I am entirely comfortable with this.”

  “Nonsense, I do it all the time.”

  “It’s called unlawful entry.” Derek’s eyes took in the small, dimly lit kitchen.

  “It’s called being a friend.” I flipped on the kitchen light and peeked in the living room, expecting to find her sprawled out on the sofa in her underwear with the TV droning. “Huh.”

  Derek came up behind me and laid his hand on my shoulder. “Huh, what?”

  “She’s not here.”

  Derek looked over my shoulder. “So I see. She does appear to have been nesting there though.” He pointed to the two blankets, pillow, balled up tissues, and open box of sugary cereal spread over the sofa cushions.

  “Is that you, A—” Stepping out of her bedroom into the hallway, Kim froze. Blond hair flew in every direction. A large, fluffy white robe swaddled her like a giant diaper. Her face was free of makeup. Her feet were bare of shoes or even a decent pair of slippers.

  “Derek!” Kim’s hand flew to her hair and she did her able best to smoosh her unruly mop into shape.

  She was clearly appalled to be seen in such disarray. I took that for a good sign. Caring about her personal appearance was a sign of good mental health.

  “Hello, Kim. Sorry to barge in on you like this.” Derek’s cheeks glowed pink. Ever the gentleman, he averted his eyes, shooting me a look that said he was extremely uncomfortable with the situation I had thrust him into.

  “What are you two doing here?” Though the words were directed at both me and Derek, the tone and the angry eyes were for me alone.

  I took a step in Kim’s direction. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

  “Because I didn’t want to talk to anybody, Amy.”

  Derek grabbed the sleeve of my coat. “I think I’ll wait outside.”

  “Maybe you—”

  “No,” Kim interrupted. “There’s beer in the fri
dge. Help yourself, Derek.” She leveled her gaze at me. “Amy, can I see you for a minute?”

  I pulled a face.

  “In my bedroom?”

  Derek and I exchanged glances.

  “A drink sounds perfect.” He stepped into the kitchen and I heard the rattle of the refrigerator door being yanked open.

  I followed Kim to her bedroom. She had never been the neatest housekeeper in the world, but her room looked like some giant, angry ogre had come in and turned it violently upside down.

  “Maid forget to show up?” I quipped in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  Kim threw herself down on her bed. “How could you bring Derek here? Without any warning?”

  I spread my hands, kicked a couple pairs of jeans out of my path on the rug, and joined her at the bedside. “How could I give you any warning when you won’t answer your phone?”

  Kim frowned at me. I frowned right back. It’s a friend thing.

  She kicked her feet in frustration. “I just need a couple of days of alone time.”

  “No,” I said, reaching for a clean outfit in her closet. “What you need is some friends-and-family time. And since I’m the closest thing you’ve got around here, you’re stuck with me.” I tossed the blue turtleneck sweater dress at her. “Put this on.” She always looked good in it, even at her worst. Like now.

  She glanced at the dress. “Where are we going?”

  “House hunting.”

  Kim wrinkled her nose at me. “Who’s looking to buy a house?”

  I nodded in the general direction of the kitchen. “Derek.”

  Her forehead creased up. “Derek’s looking to buy a house?”

  “That’s right. And he needs a hotshot agent.” I nudged her foot with my toe. “That’s you. So get washed, get dressed, and let’s go house shopping.”

  Kim rested her elbows on the bed and narrowed her eyes at me. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re up to something?”

  “Because you have an unnaturally suspicious nature.” I grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Now hurry up and get dressed before you lose a customer with an excellent credit score.”

  Kim mumbled and grumbled some more but picked up the dress I’d selected, grabbed a nice pair of knee-high leather boots from her closet to go with it, and scooted off to the bathroom.

  About a half hour later we were all lined up in a row on the cushy bench seat of Cousin Riley’s pickup truck. Derek drove, Kim had the passenger side, and I was scrunched up in the middle.

  Derek backed carefully down the drive. “Where to first?”

  “Let’s stop at the office,” suggested Kim. “I’ll grab my tablet and we can take a look at the current listings before starting out.”

  “Okay,” Derek said rather uneasily.

  I patted his leg.

  Kim lowered the sun visor and was disappointed to find no mirror. She pulled a hand mirror from a black leather case in her purse and applied a line of cranberry-colored lip gloss.

  I cleared my throat. “Actually, I was telling Derek about one house in particular that he and I thought he might be interested in.”

  “What house is that?” Kim asked, checking her work in her pocket mirror before slipping it back into its case.

  “The Virginia Johnson house,” I answered. “Isn’t that right, Derek?” I gave his leg another pat.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Derek said, rather woodenly, I thought. “It sounds exactly like what I’m looking for.”

  Kim shrugged. “If you say so. The place is a bit of a fixer-upper, you do realize? Mrs. Johnson really let the place go in her later years.”

  “I’m always up for a challenge,” Derek replied gamely. Later, when we were alone, I’d ask him why he was looking hard at me when he was answering Kim that he was always up for a challenge.

  Was he implying that I was challenging?

  19

  “Okay,” agreed Kim. “We won’t have to stop at the office then. There’s a lockbox on the door.” She focused her eyes on Derek. “Just remember I warned you.”

  Derek nodded and Kim gave him turn-by-turn directions. In a matter of minutes, we were on Mrs. Johnson’s street.

  Virginia Johnson’s house was in one of the town’s older neighborhoods, filled with large trees, equally large yards, and quaint homes. Most had Christmas decorations on their front lawns and attached to their houses.

  Derek slowed as we approached a modest pale green house with dark green trim, set back from the curb.

  A Belzer Realty sign bearing Ellery Belzer’s picture stood in the yard; another had been attached with plastic ties to the front porch rail.

  “This must be the place.” Derek parked and looked at the house. The yard was overgrown with weeds. In the middle of the front lawn, a pin oak, now devoid of leaves, towered above the pitched, double-gabled roof. Several shingles were missing and needles from the tall pines nearby clung to the edges of the roof and overflowed the gutters. There was a detached, single-gable garage to the left, with a couple of windows near the roofline.

  “Yes, this is it. I warned you, remember?” Kim said, opening her door and sliding out. “Three beds, one-and-a-half baths. Plus the FROG.”

  I tumbled out after her. “Frog? Eve Dunnellon said something about Bobby Cherry living in Mrs. Johnson’s frog. What the heck are you talking about?”

  Kim headed around the side of the truck and pointed at the garage, which had been painted in the same color scheme as the house. “Furnished room over garage.” Kim climbed the porch steps and twisted the dials on the lockbox. Inside were two keys.

  “Oh.” I looked at the windows in the single-car garage, then followed after her and Derek. “Kim, why don’t you show Derek around inside? I think I’ll start with that guest room.”

  Inspecting Virginia Johnson’s house up close, I could see that the paint was chipped, faded, and peeling. There were signs of wood rot, whether due to water damage or termites, I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

  Whoever ultimately bought this place could make my contractor Cash Calderon’s boat payments for him for a year for all the work this place needed.

  Kim shrugged and handed me one of the two keys in the lockbox. It was cold to the touch.

  “Suit yourself, Amy. Come on, Derek.” She unlocked the front door and motioned for him to follow her.

  Derek opened his mouth, but I wasn’t giving him a chance to talk. “Yes, Derek. See what you think,” I said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  His look told me there was going to be a price to pay later for his uneasy cooperation with my machinations. I’d deal with that later.

  I left him with Kim and walked up the driveway to the garage. Narrow wooden stairs to the right led up to the garage apartment. The treads were splintered and sagging. I held on to the rail as I climbed the steps. I stopped at the top landing and turned the key in the lock. The door opened with a grunt.

  A business card that someone had stuck in the edge of the door advertising car insurance fluttered to my feet. I picked it up.

  A waft of stale, moldy air commingled with tobacco hit me first. The room was cold and dark. I tried the light switch just inside the door. Nothing. Either the electricity was turned off or the bulb in the cheap plastic ceiling fixture had burned out.

  I tossed the business card into a trash can advertising a popular brand of beer, which sat to the right of the door. The rusted and dented can was nearly full with empty food containers, beer cans, and cigarette butts.

  I crossed to the window and pulled the thin yellow curtains open. Several desiccated wasps and a lone, dead house fly lay on the unpainted sill. I then turned to examine the FROG. Not surprising, the room was longer than it was wide. The ceiling rose to a point some twelve feet or so high.

  Calling it a furnished room was something of an exaggera
tion. A bed was stuffed in the far corner, nothing more than a mattress on a sagging box spring on a flimsy-looking, laminated particle-board frame. There was a mismatched six-drawer bureau along the back wall, a portable radio from another era on the floor beneath the windows.

  A dorm-sized refrigerator beside the bed also seemed to have served as a nightstand as it held a beeswax candle and a couple issues of a motorcycle magazine.

  The room’s cheaply paneled walls were pocked with small holes and protruding nails. Strips of plastic tape hung to the walls, indicating where things may have once been. There wasn’t a single picture or bit of art on the walls now.

  A rickety-looking rectangular table and two mismatched pine chairs occupied the center of the room. Atop the table, an ashtray, a jar of generic instant coffee, several napkins, and an empty white paper sack from a fast-food joint out at the main highway created a tableau that only added to the bleakness of the room and its one-time occupant.

  A greasy black sweatshirt with frayed sleeves rested on the bedsheets, which themselves were stained and dusty. The room was in need of a good top-to-bottom clean. Junk mail lay scattered in loose piles, along with an old newspaper or two and a handful of takeout-food flyers.

  There was no formal kitchen, not even an informal one. The bathroom, which I discovered behind a narrow door, was closet-sized.

  The FROG wasn’t much. Real frogs living in the Louisiana bayous had it better. But from what I’d heard from others about Bobby Cherry, he wasn’t much either.

  There were two very interesting things about Bobby Cherry, however. Number one, he was living upstairs here in the FROG at the same time that Virginia Johnson was quote-unquote hanging herself in the garage below.

  The second curious thing about him was that he’d been, according to Eve Dunnellon, causing trouble at Christmas House Village.

  Why?

  Was he the person responsible for the latest incident that Dan had told me about?

  I walked slowly around the room, careful to avoid banging my head on the lower portions of the sloped ceiling.

  I heard a sudden banging close by and stuck my head out the door. A Northern flicker was attacking the decaying corner of the garage roof. As it did, bits of wood fell to the barren ground below. The riddled wooden siding was probably chock-full of insects.