Not a very talkative guy. Kind of a one-sided argument.
Jay swung around. I sucked in my breath and shrank back against the house. His eyes, dark and angry, had darted toward the window.
OMG, had he seen me? My heart pounded. Blood rushed inside my ears. I couldn't move.
Water turned on. Jay had to be standing at the sink. He spoke again, a low rumble muffled by the water. The water turned off. A door slammed. The wall behind me vibrated.
I pivoted slowly, inching toward the window. Scooted back at the sound of a second door slamming. Took a deep breath. And peeked.
The woman had disappeared from view. Jay stomped through the kitchen carrying a bag and a shovel. A big one. With a pointy end. He cut around the kitchen table and out of my view. Metal scraped, and something heavy dragged, then rolled.
Craptastic. The sliding glass door. He was coming outside. My heart leaped into my throat. I pulled away from the window and flattened against the wall. Had he seen me? Was he coming to knock my head in with a shovel?
Jay slammed the sliding door shut, making the wall behind me shudder. Inside the screened porch, he used the shovel to knock down Martha Mae's little trees. Swiped at the lighted stars swinging from the porch rafters. Littered the ground with tiny ornaments.
Pressed against the wall, I fought off shudders. Poor Martha Mae. All her decorating work ruined with a few swings of a shovel. I tried not to think what the shovel also might do to my head. Jay hadn't given an indication that he knew I was out here. But he would see me if I ran.
He'd see me if I didn't run. I felt like crying. The thought of frozen snot kept back the tears.
Taking a break from his Christmas demolition, Jay shoved open the screen door on the opposite side of the porch. It swung back and crashed into the frame. With a final swipe at an angel hanging above the door, he lumbered into the yard.
Slowly, I sank toward the ground. Keeping my back to the wall, I sat on my haunches in a tight huddle, hoping the shadows would keep me hidden. Above me, the light from the kitchen shone through the window.
Jay tromped through the icy grass, the bag swinging from one hand, the shovel dragging behind him. It made an eerie ringing, cutting across the cold, bumpy ground. At Martha Mae's garden, he unlatched and opened the gate, more carefully than he'd done on the porch. Dropping the bag on the ground, he began to dig. Jay strained against the frozen top layer. His labored breathing grew louder with his muttered curses. Eventually, the sound of shovel hitting clay and the flung dirt smacking the frozen garden became rhythmic.
I couldn't move. I needed to move. Jay was preoccupied. There was a chance he wouldn't see me. The front half of the garden fence had lights hanging from it. I could see him, he probably couldn't see me.
There was also a chance he could see me. And he had a big, wicked shovel. Plus, he was making a very large hole in the ground.
For a body?
My thighs shook. My knees felt close to exploding. Cold had set into my bones.
A new fear. Frozen joints. I'd be permanently stuck in this crouch like an overlarge, frosty garden gnome. Jay would find me, pick me up like he was carrying a super-sized pretzel, and toss me in the hole. They'd find my skeleton, bones contorted and fused together, and wonder what monster had been buried in Halo years before.
I didn't want the fate of an unwanted garden gnome.
Summoning all my courage and Julia Pinkerton's swagger (nine years younger, she was also lithe and flexible) I kept my back against the house and crab-walked. With the speed of a large, ancient tortoise. At the corner of the house, I slithered. One appendage, then the next. Dropped on all fours. And crawled until I felt more safely out of sight. Did a quick round of cow to cat yoga to loosen my muscles, pushed into downward dog to relieve my calves, and unfolded (slowly, creakingly) to upright. I leaned against the house wall, panting.
Felt a little better. Except for feeling like an idiot.
Jay was burying something in Martha Mae's kitchen garden. Guns? A stash of bank money? Bodies?
And what was I going to do? My plans had gone from convincing Krystal to return home to visit her Grandma, to doing what? Saving two elderly ladies from possible bank robbers? Who shot people and kidnapped cops? Come on. Even Julia Pinkerton didn't do stuff like that on the show. Nobody had guns. They mostly shot off their mouths. The writers couldn't risk a rating censure.
I ambled forward, stopping at Martha Mae's living room window. Her Christmas tree blocked the view into the house. I stared at the bubbling and blinking lights for a moment and listened to the distant ring of shovel on dirt.
Big hole.
What if it was for a body?
Yanking off my hat, I ran my fingers through my hair, then caught myself in the window's reflection. Someone I didn't know looked back at me. Her eyes had a hard, calculating set to them. Her former Colgate smile had vanished for a grim scowl. And let's not talk about the woman's hair. I did not want to go there. I pulled the beanie back on.
I'd always been impetuous — borderline reckless — but more like, the imprudent "rich kid from Beverly Hills" type. That was embarrassing enough to admit. I couldn't save anybody from bank robbers. Not when the bank robber might shoot them. Or me. What would that do to Daddy? Find out his daughter was shot at Christmas? And Remi? I'd promised her I'd be home for Christmas Eve. I'd ruin Vicki's Fiji holiday. I didn't have high hopes for getting her a bikini in time, but no chance of that now if I was dead.
Also, Nash. He wanted to spend Christmas Eve with me, too. I was more excited about that than a visit from Santa.
Plus, Nash would kill me if I got shot.
* * *
I ran (slid) to Tiffany's car and laid flat on the back bench seat. For a long moment, I stared at the ceiling, panted, and wiggled my numb toes. I assumed Jay continued his (literal) skullduggery and the-woman-I-presumed-was-Krystal did whatever she deemed necessary after a bank robbery (Showered? Counted money? Renewed her passport?).
“You don't know for sure they're bank robbers," I told myself. “Possibly, this is all one big mistake. They're visiting Aunt Martha Mae (who they'd never visited previously) to help her with her back. And Jay is digging a coffin-shaped hole in her garden because people with bad backs shouldn't be digging.”
"Yeah, right," said my inner Julia Pinkerton. "That hole is for Martha Mae."
I was in way over my head. I had to call the police. As soon as they showed to protect the sick artist and her pregnant sister, I'd drive to the twenty-four-hour Waffle Hut, spend the night in a booth, and drive home in the morning. Surely in the morning, the sun would come out, melt the ice, and I'd be on the road with plenty of time to binge-watch all the Rankin-Bass Christmas shows with Remi. She went to bed early. I'd have time to see Nash. Did he have an office Christmas party planned? Would we drink eggnog and do a Secret Santa exchange? Mistletoe in his office door?
Kind of hard to do Secret Santa with two people. Maybe he'd include Lamar. Hopefully not Jolene Sweeney, because that's a sure way of knowing I'd get coal. But if Lamar and Jolene were invited, I doubted there would be mistletoe.
Hello, Maizie. No secret Santa until I knew these people were safe.
I dialed 9-1-1.
"9-1-1. What's your emergency?"
Nash had said concise but detailed. But detail only the facts.
"Possible violence," I answered. "I don't think you'd call it a domestic, but it is in a domestic domicile. 213 Loblolly. Martha Mae Boyes's house. Not Martha Mae. I don't think she'd hurt a fly. I'm not positive, but her nephew and grandniece might be armed. Possibly they're bank robbers? In any case, I'm concerned for Martha Mae and Pearl. I don't know Pearl's last name. She raises goats? Also for her neighbors, Cherry and Casey. I forgot their last names. One is sick, and the other is pregnant. We're talking the endangerment of the elderly and the infirm. Not that pregnancy is an illness. Casey looked pretty healthy to me. In any case, we haven't heard from Martha Mae or Pearl for quite a while. They
could be held hostage."
"Your name, please?"
"Maizie— Does it matter?" I said, thinking of my probation officer and her hearty dislike of my job. "I'm just visiting."
"Visiting Cherry Tucker?" The voice hardened. "Did Cherry tell you to call?"
"No. I'm supposed to be visiting Martha Mae? But she never came to the door? Just the nephew. And he's a convicted felon. Although he served his time. His daughter is out after an arrest. But she wasn't charged with anything."
"And you saw them with weapons? Did you say they're armed?"
"Not totally sure on that point? But I know the bank robbers are armed."
"Have you heard any gunshots? Any evidence they're using the weapons?"
"No."
"Where are you now? I'll send an officer out to talk to you."
"In a car…" I chewed my lip.
"What's your business there?"
"Martha Mae's sister sent me to talk the grandniece into coming home for Christmas?" My nerves were making me uptalk. This was not going well. I sounded crazy. "I heard about the bank robbers and…"
"Yes, we've gotten a lot of calls about the bank robbers today. I'll send an officer to speak to you—"
"I'm leaving. I need to get home." All I needed was for a Halo deputy to look me up and learn I'm on probation. And contact my probation officer. Who was scary. "Can the officer just go to Martha Mae's house and check on her?"
"They'd like to talk to you first."
"I've got to get home," I said. "Never mind me. Just send someone out to keep an eye on Martha Mae's. And the house next door, 211 Loblolly. I'm worried they're not safe. The officer needs to make sure Martha Mae and Pearl are okay. Pearl went to check on Martha Mae, and she hasn't come back."
"Thank you for your information. As soon as an officer is available, they'll be there. The roads are bad, so please wait. Remain where you are so they can speak to you. Are you at the house?"
"No." I hung up.
Craptastic. I lowered my head to the steering wheel and jerked back. Freezing cold and with me sweating bullets, I might have stuck. That's all I needed, my forehead stuck to a steering wheel. Finding a candy cane in my pocket, I pulled back the plastic on the end that wasn't covered in tape and shoved it in my mouth. I needed sugar in a very bad way.
My therapist Renata and my trainer Jerry would be so disappointed. One for needing a crutch and the other for eating chemically treated high-fructose corn syrup. Jerry said I might as well eat poison.
I'd take candy cane poison over getting killed any day.
Sucking on the candy cane, I stared out the window. In the artist's house, the pregnant sister was decorating a small tree she'd placed in the window. That looked normal. Pleasant. Christmas-y. Giving me hope that this was all just some crazy storm of coincidences that meant nothing.
Why did I agree to help Mrs. Fowler? She was a terrible grandmother.
Granted I didn't know that at the time. Nor was I even sure about that now.
At Martha Mae's, there was movement. I squinted and fast-sucked my candy cane. The door opened. Light spilled onto the porch.
Oh, my God. Jay was leaving the house again. Did he finish digging? Was he coming here? Was the hole for me? I slid halfway down my seat, keeping my eyes on Jay.
Using Martha Mae's porch posts, Jay banged the mud off his shoes. I hated to think what he'd done to poor Martha Mae's floors. I took the candy cane from my mouth, pulled the plastic over the now-sharp end, and shoved it in my pocket. My heart beat in my throat.
Still on the porch, Jay lit a cigarette. Slowly, he scanned the street.
I dropped beneath my window. Blood pulsed inside my ears. I felt dizzy. Realized I was panting again. Deliberately slowed my breathing.
At least my puffing made the car smell minty.
I wanted to look up, but fear kept me crouched beneath the seat. Possibly Jay was taking a smoke break. Rewarding himself after the hard work. Hard work of burying bodies.
Santa, I want a patrol car for Christmas. Early. Like right now. With flashing lights and a siren.
I peeked through the driver's window. Jay was no longer on the porch. I inched my way up the door, peering right and left. Climbed onto the seat. No Jay.
A tiny orange light between the houses winked and went out. Was that Jay? In his neighbor's yard? The sick artist's house.
Hells. What was he doing there? Did they have a garden for burying bodies, too?
I quietly opened the door and set a foot on the road. My boot slid sideways. I hit the road with both hands. Bit my lip to keep from crying out. Kicked the door shut and crawled forward. Prayed no one would drive down the street and splatter me. At the artist's driveway, I pushed up, slid toward the Firebird and hand-over-hand, vehicle-by-vehicle, trekked up the driveway. In the carport, I ran to the kitchen door and stopped.
I didn't want to freak out a pregnant woman and someone sick with the flu. I knocked. Quietly.
Casey appeared. I sidled past her and shut the kitchen door.
"Did you find Pearl?" she said.
"Not yet." I didn't want to tell her what I did find. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be checking out your yard? Just ignore me? But, maybe stay away from the windows and lock your doors?"
"What in the hell is going on?"
"I'm being cautious. Checking the perimeters. But maybe get out your sister's gun and stay in that room with her?" I opened the kitchen door, shut it behind me. The lock clicked.
I was alone in their yard. With Jay. Again.
Worst Christmas ever.
15 Cherry Tucker
My eyes felt tight and dry. My head foggy and full. I shook with chills. But while Casey busied herself decorating for the Christmas I didn't want to have, I had pulled on layers to free my body of blankets and positioned myself before the window.
I'd seen Santa. Creeping around my house.
Casey didn't need to know. She'd fight me, knowing I was out of bed, let alone what I planned on doing. Luke wouldn't call me back, which told me the sheriff's office was in over their heads between the weather and the domestic disturbances that always happened this time of year. If I called the dispatcher, she'd just think the flu had melted my brain. Besides, I had nothing much to report other than a tree that had been moved and two missing women who might just be watching A Charlie Brown Christmas rerun in Mrs. Boyes's bedroom.
I'd unplugged Snug's lights, darkening the room, and half-hid against the wall. The light next door gave the nephew away, but even in the shifting shadows, the glowing end of a cigarette drifted near his face. He'd strolled around the edge of the house. Stopped in the corner of Mrs. Boyes's house, where he dragged on the cigarette then let his arm drop and hang. Facing my house. Like he was studying it.
My eyes narrowed. I no longer felt the chill. Heat poured off me, damp and angry. My sister and her baby were in my house. And this man had threatened her. For what? Watching our Pearl argue with him through his aunt's window? What was he hiding with that tree? And where the hell was Pearl?
I wanted in that house. But I couldn't leave Casey alone with Creepster Santa hanging outside my window. A light knock in the kitchen startled me. Creepy nephew was still standing next to his aunt's house, smoking. I left him to sneak down the hallway and peer into the kitchen.
The movie star was back. Casey had let her in. Dammit. It was going to be harder for me to sneak out with the prying eyes of the so-called PI in the house. But then, she'd keep an eye on Casey while I could see what the nephew was doing.
I swiped at the sweat dampening my neck and listened.
What in the hell? Movie Star knew about Pearl? And she was checking our perimeter? Did she know the nephew was out there? Idiot. She'd get herself into trouble. That one did not look capable of taking on a killer Santa.
If the nephew had strangled Mrs. Boyes with Christmas lights. I still wasn't sure.
But Movie Star was plenty worried about Pearl. I could hear it in
her voice. She shook with tension. Or maybe with cold.
Why didn't Casey offer her a cup of cocoa or something?
She left. Movie Star was out there with creepy Santa.
It was time to pull out the Remington. For Casey and the baby's sake.
* * *
My hair felt slick with sweat and my hands clammy, but I ignored the fever. Keeping an eye on the window, I busied myself with a half-cocked — as Luke would call it — plan. After I had checked and filled the Remington with shells, I placed the shotgun on the guest bed. I'd make Casey spend the rest of the night in there. She and I had been raised with hunters. Casey knew her way around a shotgun. Anyway, Uncle Will had made us take gun safety classes every year. His responsibility as sheriff, he'd said.
In my bedroom, I had plugged the Christmas lights back in and piled my pillows beneath the blanket. From the outside, if anyone cared to peek in my window, it'd look like I was sleeping. Found the trigger and door stop alarms Luke had gotten from a home security seminar. Then pulled out the lights from Great-Gam's box of Christmas decorations and took a moment to admire the thick wiring and heavy duty bulbs.
I had a few surprises set up for Santa. Just in case he tried to come down my chimney early this year.
While I stretched Christmas lights between eye-screws, the ping-pong of my front doorbell startled me. Casey, still working on the tree, answered. She kept her voice hushed, but I recognized the fear in her rushed whisper. Whoever was there, she wouldn't allow in the house.
Dumping the lights, I leaped into the guest room, grabbed the Remington, and half-slid down my hall. Tearing around the arched doorway, I ran into the living room.
"Get out of the way, Casey." I racked the shotgun and swung it up to my shoulder, pressing my cheek against the stock. "Whoever you are, I am armed, and this gun is loaded."
Casey cried out and spun around, hugging her belly. A man stepped into the doorway and shoved her aside. A handgun rose, pointed at me.
"Drop your weapon," he yelled. "Police."
A VIEW TO A CHILL Page 9