by Barb Goffman
My eyes betrayed me, growing wide.
She knew.
“And then I’m sure the newspaper would show up,” Jessica said. “And they’d take pictures of all of this.” She cast her arms wide, the cake tipping precariously. “What would all your neighbors say at church on Sunday?”
I took in the room again. Scalloped sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce dotted the walls, like one of those abstract paintings where the so-called artists flick paint at the canvas. Several glasses of pinot noir lay on their sides, the wine dripping off the table. The turkey looked as if it had been attacked by vultures. Food was plastered into the children’s hair and onto everyone’s clothes. Everywhere I looked there was mess.
No. Not just mess. Disaster.
I turned my attention back toward Jessica, licked my lips, and sighed. The airhead had beaten me.
“Oh, my,” I said. “Here it is!”
I reached down into the gravy boat and plucked out the ring. As I held it up, Jessica smirked, and silence descended in the room.
“You found it,” Kevin said.
“Thank goodness,” Agnes added.
“Oh,” Jessica said. “I’m so relieved!”
As she said it, she whirled sideways, and the mud cake flew from her hand, hitting me square in the nose and forehead. Gooey bits clung to my eyelashes. Then the cake began to slowly slide down my face and clothes before ultimately landing at my feet. My humiliation was complete.
“Oh, Aunt Dotty. I’m so sorry,” Jessica said. “I don’t know how that happened.” Jessica stepped forward into the cake, squishing it into the carpet. As I tried to brush the cake from my eyelids, Jessica pulled the ring from my hand and held it up for all to see. “But at least we’ve recovered the ring.”
It was at that moment that Agnes seemed to really notice the state of my dining room. “Oh, Dotty, I’m sorry, too. Your beautiful furniture and carpeting. They’re ruined. And your walls. You’ll have to repaint.” She grabbed one of my white linen napkins and handed it to me so I could start wiping the chocolate off my face and dress. “It’s all my fault. I should have been more careful when I helped you set up.” She paused, blinking. “But it’s funny, I don’t even remember going near the gravy boat after you filled it.”
I nodded. Bits of cake fell from my hair. “Don’t you worry about this at all, Agnes. It’s not your fault.”
“That’s right,” Jessica said. “I’m sure if you had noticed the ring falling into the gravy, Grandmother Agnes, you would have said something right away. You never would have wanted to have this pristine room ruined while we searched for the ring. Isn’t that right, Aunt Dotty?”
I nodded again and nearly laughed aloud over the absurdity of the situation.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having this girl in the family. She wasn’t such a dim bulb after all.
“Agnes,” I said as I licked some of the cake crumbs from my lips. “I think starting next year we should change some of our family traditions. Let’s have Thanksgiving dinner at your house. You can take care of the jobs of hosting and cooking all the side dishes. I’ll just make the turkey.”
“And I’ll make the gravy,” Jessica said, grinning at me for real. “The meal just wouldn’t be the same without it.”
“Biscuits, Carats, and Gravy” originally appeared in The Killer Wore Cranberry, published by Untreed Reads Publishing in 2010.
When Editor-In-Chief Jay Hartman of Untreed Reads Publishing put out a call for stories for his first Thanksgiving anthology, he said he wanted funny Thanksgiving crime stories, each featuring a holiday food. He would be choosing one story for each type of dish. My mind started working overtime. Funny. Hmm. It would be hard to make murder funny. Maybe I could use another crime, such as theft. I figured Jay would get a slew of submissions featuring the Thanksgiving biggies: turkey, pumpkin pie, and green-bean casserole, and that my chances of acceptance would be higher using a dish other authors might overlook. Like gravy. And the ideas rolled out from there. Could something small be stolen and hidden in gravy? Oh, yes. Could a family end up searching through their meal for missing jewelry? Uh huh. Could that search believably boil down to a food fight? Yep, yep it could. I had such fun writing this story. I hope you enjoyed reading it.
CHRISTMAS SURPRISE
Eyes on the prize, Rob. Keep your eyes on the prize.
I kept repeating the words to myself. Maybe if I thought them often enough, I wouldn’t strangle the perky secretary who’d offered me a cup of eggnog—twice—in the past five minutes while I waited for my appointment.
“It shouldn’t be much longer,” she said, her baby blues twinkling behind the granny glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “It’s wonderful you’ve returned home, Robbie.”
I grinned at her, growling inside. I didn’t know what pissed me off more, that she called me Robbie, as if I were six, or that I was actually home.
Home. The day I turned eighteen, I’d fled the North Pole and its damned cheerfulness. Vowed never to return. Yet here I was, ten years later, sitting in the human resources office of Santa’s workshop, hoping to land a job. At least they had the heat cranked up. I’d forgotten how the Arctic cold seeped into my bones. If I were in charge, I’d move the whole operation down to the tropics. Nothing beat being warm.
Finally bells jingled as Andy, the head elf, opened his office door. He wore a belted, long green shirt and a freaking cone-shaped green hat with a white pompon on the end. And tights! Jesus, I hated everything about this place, especially all the ridiculous clothes everyone wore. Why couldn’t they just wear jeans?
I approached Andy, my hand outstretched. He ignored it, enveloping me in a bear hug. I had to force myself not to squirm. Everyone around here was way too touchy-feely.
“Robbie, it’s great to see you,” he said.
“Thanks. You, too.” Nothing like starting a job interview with a lie.
“Well, come on in,” he said. “It’s certainly been a long time.”
We entered Andy’s office. It smelled of cinnamon. Large, framed photos of the boss and his wife, white-haired and apple-cheeked, hung on the far wall. Andy had always been such a suck-up. His desk was littered with small toys. A yo-yo, stuffed brown bear, and a red race car, among others. He caught me eyeing them as he settled behind his desk.
“Prototypes,” he said. “We’re trying to take classic toys and update them for the twenty-first century. It’s a challenge.” A large smile spread over his face. “But we love a challenge up here.”
I sank into the chair in front of his desk, trying like hell not to retch all over his prototypes, which still looked retro to me. I nodded, my mouth shut tight, so I wouldn’t say something inappropriate.
“So,” Andy said. “Not too many elves ever leave Christmas Town. How’d the big world treat you?”
Just great, until I pulled that five-year stretch in the joint. You haven’t really done prison time till you’ve done it as an elf.
I’d keep that thought to myself. This wasn’t the time for honesty.
“Dandy,” I said instead. I knew this guy would never check. Everyone up here was so trusting. That stuff about Santa knowing when kids are good or bad? Don’t believe it for a second. The sap likes to think that everyone is always good.
Andy flashed an even bigger smile now. I wanted to smack it off his face, but I smiled back at him instead. Had to put on a good show.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “So what brings you back here?”
If I said revenge, he’d never hire me. But that was the reason. My need for revenge consumed me. I used to lie awake at night in that bitter, reeking prison, dreaming of getting out and tracking down my old squeeze, Lisa. I’d thought she’d been cool with my little side business when she discovered it. What’s a little burglary between friends? Then she ratted me out to the cops. I spent five years in that freezing hellhole because of her. Five years of watching my back—often unsuccessfully. The guys loved using me as
a punching bag. And more. Oh, Lisa had to pay.
She must have known I’d eventually come looking for her, because when they finally sprung me, Lisa had vanished. Couldn’t get a lead on her anywhere. But there was one guy who could find her: Santa. So here I was, sucking down the bile in my throat while I sucked up to Andy.
“I missed home, all the other elves, the caroling, everything,” I said, trying to keep my voice light and peppy. “So I’ve moved back and am looking for a job. Can you help me?”
“Of course.” Andy leaned forward. “There’s always room for another elf in Santa’s workshop, especially with Christmas just two months away. What department did you have in mind?”
“Dolls. I want to make dolls.”
“Easy enough. Lots of little girls want dolls.”
I smiled. I was counting on it.
* * * *
A couple months later, I’d constructed an army of dolls. They sang. Laughed. Talked baby talk. The works. It took all my self-control not to snap their little heads off.
I’d also created one special doll. It didn’t walk or talk or do anything. Just waited for a kid with imagination to give it life. I named it Amy, after Lisa’s daughter. It was exactly the kind of toy a kid raised by goody-two-shoes Lisa would want. The girl was a toddler when I went inside. She’d be the perfect age for this doll now.
I entered my doll into the database and pressed search. Seconds later I got the response I’d hoped for. Amy the doll and Amy the kid were a match. I couldn’t help laughing. Just a few days till Christmas. Oh, payback would be sweet.
* * * *
Finally Christmas Eve arrived. The reindeer were warmed up and harnessed. Santa was doing his last-minute prep, tucking his PDA in his left pocket while the missus stuffed candy—bars and canes—in his right. I was part of the team making sure the toys were strapped in properly. Davey, one of the shortest elves, kept singing that obnoxious “We Are Santa’s Elves” song. Jeez, I so needed to get out of here.
Once the toys were secured, I hung back as the other elves headed to the bar for some eggnog and more—more!—caroling. I made sure no one was looking and hid in the back of the sleigh, behind the toys. A few minutes and some ho-ho-ho’s later, Santa and I were on our way.
I’d never ridden in the sleigh before. It was frigging cold up there in the atmosphere. No wonder Santa always wore that furry suit. I couldn’t wait till we got to Lisa’s place. I needed a little warmth, and oh, I was gonna get it from her.
Each time we stopped, my nerves jangled in anticipation. Was this the house? I kept waiting for the Amy doll to float out of the sleigh and land in Santa’s sack—my personal signal that we’d reached Lisa’s place. (What, you thought flying reindeer were the only magical thing about Christmas?)
Several hours into the trip, somewhere on the U.S. East Coast, we reached my destination. A small ranch house with blinking, colored lights lining the roof and a lopsided snowman partially melted in the yard. I watched Santa, the Amy doll, and a few other toys drop down the chimney. My adrenaline flowing, I crawled out of the sleigh, crept past the reindeer, and squatted on the far side of the chimney. Before I knew it, Santa was up and out, back in the sleigh, and off to deliver the rest of his gifts.
And I was finally in a position to deliver mine.
I grasped the chimney, swung my legs inside, and began climbing down. Bricks scratched my back and palms, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my plans for Lisa. I’d sneak into her bedroom and—what the hell? I’d almost reached the bottom of the chimney, but I was stuck.
I wiggled around. Soot fell on my face. I coughed and shook some of it off, but couldn’t move up or down. How had the damn chimney suddenly become so narrow? No way that lardo Santa could make it down and I couldn’t.
And then I remembered: Christmas magic. I’d never paid much attention in elf school. I’d known I’d be ditching Christmas Town first chance I got, so I’d figured I didn’t need to know all the crap they taught. But I vaguely recalled something about Christmas magic. It’s how Santa fits into chimneys. They expand for him. And only him. Son of a bitch! What was I gonna do?
I had no choice. I needed help.
“Lisa,” I yelled. No answer. “Lisa!”
I heard scurrying below.
“Mommy, it’s Santa!”
“Oh, my God,” Lisa said.
She sounded squeaky, like she had in court, when she’d testified against me. She knew who was up the chimney, and she was scared. Good.
“You better go right back to bed, Amy,” Lisa said. “You don’t want Santa to catch you awake. Make sure you shut your door and stay in bed until morning.”
I heard the girl giggle, then sounds of retreating footsteps. A few moments later a door slammed.
“Rob, is it really you?” Lisa’s voice trembled.
“Yeah, baby. I’m your Christmas surprise,” I said, low and smooth. Lisa would help me out of this jam—she was such a Girl Scout—but it couldn’t hurt to turn on the charm. “I’m stuck. You need to pull me down.”
“How did you find me?”
I bit back a curse. Nothing was ever simple with this woman. “I’ve missed you, baby. Waited so long to surprise you. Does it really matter how I tracked you down?”
“No. I guess it doesn’t.…You’re really stuck in there?”
“Yeah.” Christ. Why would I lie about that?
“Okay, give me a minute to figure out what to do.”
Dumb bitch. I’d told her what to do. Yank me out. At least I was far enough down the chimney that I was starting to warm up. Then I heard a popping sound. And another. What was that?
“I like to think of myself as a good person, but I don’t see any other option,” Lisa said as the crackling grew louder. “I tried to hide from you, Rob, but obviously Amy and I will never be safe, not as long as you’re alive.”
It was at that moment that my feet started to sweat and smoke curled into my nostrils. And I knew.
She’d lit the Yule log. And I was toast.
This is another story that came to me, practically fully formed, in a dream. I enjoyed adding color to it, giving nods to the wonderful holiday TV specials from my childhood through the elves’ clothing and carols. Of course, those shows always had happy endings. Ah, well…
One of the joys of being a writer is being able to say thank you to friends through my writing. I have several former colleagues who have long supported me, always asking about my work. I hope to eventually name story characters after all of them, in appreciation. In this story, I’ve singled out four: Rob Garrett, Dave Holloway, Lisa Kimmel, and Amy Hallett. I hope you like your namesakes.
SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN
The ringing phone wrenched me from hard-earned sleep, and I groaned. Late-night calls never brought good news.
I slipped from Greg’s arms and grabbed the receiver. “Hello,” I mumbled, tugging my cami straight.
“Sheriff, it’s Madelyn Kelner down at the hospital. I’m sorry to call so late.”
The alarm clock read 3:14. Felt more like ‘so early’ to me.
“It’s okay, Madelyn. What’s happening?”
“Ambulance brought Shirley Byerrum in. She tried to avoid a deer and crashed her car into a tree. Looks like she’s not going to make it, and she’s asking for you.”
Odd. Shirley had been the department’s file clerk when I was first elected sheriff eleven years ago. I’d let her go pretty soon after. She was too sloppy. And nosy. And she spent half her time in the office playing word games on her computer. The only interaction we’d had since then was her giving me the evil eye every time she saw me. Hard to believe I’d be the last person she’d want to see on this earth.
“All right, Madelyn. I’m on my way.”
I threw the blanket onto my husband, who was snoring something fierce. That man could sleep through a train wreck.
“Sheriff,” Madelyn said. “You better hurry.”
* * * *<
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Twenty minutes later I hustled into the hospital’s emergency entrance. Madelyn emerged from behind the nurse’s desk. Her bulging stomach seemed even bigger than when I saw her just a week ago. That baby was going to be a big one.
“She still alive?”
Madelyn nodded, and her auburn bangs brushed her hazel eyes. “Hard to believe with her injuries.”
“She lucid?”
“Yep on that, too. And as ornery as ever.”
Madelyn pointed to a curtained area by the far wall. I walked over and stepped inside. Shirley was hooked up to several beeping machines. Her wrinkled face was as gray as her hair, and deep purple bruises covered her bird-like arms. She seemed shriveled. A shadow of her former self.
“Shirley,” I said softly as I approached her bed. Seeing her like that made me regret all the bad feelings between us.
Her eyes opened, alert. She moved her head slightly, motioning me to come closer.
I grasped the bed’s handrail and stood over her. “What is it, Shirley?”
She took a couple shallow breaths. “Sheriff.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve never liked you.”
I clamped my mouth shut, biting my tongue. That was Shirley in a nutshell. Even lying on her deathbed, all she could think about was sticking it to me.
She coughed. “But I can’t die like this. Not without telling.”
Telling?
“Telling what, Shirley?” I shifted closer.
“Those boys. Those missing boys. I know who grabbed ’em.”
My breath caught in my chest. Five boys had gone missing in the county over the past two years. The youngest was seven. The oldest, eleven. I’d had many sleepless nights since the disappearances began. We’d never had a single lead. Till now.
“Who, Shirley? Who is it?”
She paused, the corners of her mouth curling up slightly. “Harlow Springer.”
“The funeral director?”
I shook my head. The accusation was hard to believe. The man had lived in this county all his life, near on sixty years. He was a member of the Chamber of Commerce. A veteran. He had an easy-going way about him, and was kind and supportive to folks in their time of need. But I’d learned the hard way in this job that people aren’t always what they appear to be. Darkness can hide behind a gleaming smile. It only slithers out when you’re not looking.