The Secret Santa

by Trish Harnetiaux

  Zara

  I was right next to Claudine and saw every one of her face muscles clench. In the movie version of this story, the glass drops in slow motion—the shattering a metaphor of how her and Henry’s lives were about to explode the same way.

  Then Henry called the five-minute break and the two of them left the room. The rest of us went to the bar. By this time the snow was coming down so hard, it felt like the entire house existed inside a snow globe. Like some child had taken the world and shaken it so hard, it was impossible to tell which way was up or down. As I was staring out the windows, Steve came up to me.

  “You think Aspen is beautiful now,” he said, “you should see it in the spring and summer. That’s the favorite time of the year for us locals. Every hillside is a blanket of wildflowers, and the rivers are fast and strong from all the melted snow. Everything is green and lush. Even the breezes are sweet. Actually, there’s a listing I represent that just came on the market. A gorgeous five-bedroom that overlooks the Roaring Fork River. You should come take a look before you head back to California. I think you’d love it.”

  He gave me his business card, then walked away. He was a good salesman. I mean, his tan was out of control but he wasn’t pushy the way Claudine was. There wasn’t the same air of desperation about him. And, honestly, I was a little more receptive to his pitch than I would have been just a half hour earlier, walking out of the screening room with Henry. Once Natalie unwrapped the statue and Claudine dropped her glass, a weird energy infiltrated the house. I almost opened up my ghost hunter app to scan the room. But instead, I headed to the bar to grab a drink. The other guests had been really quiet toward me so far. I figured Claudine told them to keep their distance. Polite, but not nosey. But with her and Henry out of the room, they started to get more brave.

  “Where do you write your songs?” Louisa asked.

  “What’s your favorite venue you’ve ever played?” Rashida asked.

  “How do you protect your vocal cords?” Kevin asked, then Jerry asked again.

  “What’s the fastest quick change you’ve ever done during a show?” Intense John.

  “Are you still in touch with Liam?” Wow. Jules was brave.

  But then I was like, fuck it, and answered all of them. Told them how I’ve written about half my songs at Zuma Beach. The white noise of the ocean is the perfect backdrop when I’m thinking up lyrics, and that the concept of sand gives me endless inspiration. The billions of crushed shells and rock. Told them actually I loved playing at Red Rocks here in Colorado. I drink a lot of hot water with lemon and honey. I’m the master of the fifteen-second quick change. And then, unbelievably, I talked about Liam. Found myself explaining how, at the end of it, we were just different. Our takes on the world weren’t compatible in the long run. I wasn’t able to express myself without feeling like he was judging me. That he thought he saw the world had a right way and anyone that challenged it was foolish. It was only through saying the words that I actually figured that out for myself. I’d never be with someone who actually thought they understood what life was. Wasn’t it all just this wild, unpredictable journey?

  Then Claudine and Henry came back and people got quiet again. She started the game back up straightaway, and everyone drifted away from me like we hadn’t been talking at all. Back to their seats.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked me. Before I thought he was cute, but now he was really handsome. Straight teeth but crooked smile. Fucking charming. Suddenly I realized I hadn’t thought that about anybody since Liam broke up with me. Another huge breakthrough. Even if I left Aspen without buying a house, the trip would be a success.

  Then Henry came over to the bar. Automatically the bartender poured a club soda into a rocks glass, garnished it with lime and handed it to him. Henry had been drinking them all night. I had figured they were gin and tonics.

  “No more mocktails,” he said. “I’m going to need something a little harder.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the bartender said. “The hostess said to only serve you nonalcoholic beverages. Her orders were strict.”

  “They always are,” Henry said. “Tell you what. You don’t have to serve me. I’ll serve myself.”

  Henry stepped behind the bar. He put ice in the shaker, followed by vermouth and bitters. Then he gave himself a generous pour of whiskey and started shaking. Hard. I mean, in all of history ice cubes were never shaken with such force, so much purpose and determination. The bartender and I looked at each other like, What is going on here? It was like he was trying to start nuclear fusion.

  Finally he cracked the shaker and poured its contents into a martini glass. He took a sip and let out a deep sigh, standing there with his eyes closed for a moment. Again the bartender and I exchanged a glance. Then he opened his eyes and said to me: “C’mon, Zara, time to meet our fate.”

  Being a good mother meant looking forward, not backward. Slowly I began to see my way through my anger. I’d have to let go of that. But then a couple months later I was reading the paper on a break at the diner and I saw the announcement. It was so small that I almost missed it. The newly formed boutique firm of Calhoun + Calhoun had purchased the Miller property. Though the exact sale price was not disclosed, it was rumored to be a fraction of the estimated value. Apparently there was a lack of interest due to the murders. Along with the story was a small photo of the buyers. They were a good-looking couple. She had short hair, professional and polished. He looked strong, which made more sense.

  Zara

  It was Jerry’s turn. He didn’t waste any time and ended up opening a pair of pretty sweet Prada sunglasses. He was stoked. It was funny: you could tell he didn’t usually buy stuff like that—bling. He put them on and you just knew he’d sleep in them tonight. They looked good and he kept checking out his reflection in the window.

  “Well, I believe I’m next,” said Captain Tiggleman.

  He shuffled to the table and took a brief survey, then turned to Jerry and said, “Son, I believe I’ll take those sunglasses.” Jerry’s gasp was audible. He thought they’d never leave his face again. But there they went. What a cruel game this was.

  At that moment the piano player started into “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” I couldn’t contain my excitement.

  “Oooh, Andy Williams!” I said. “I love this song.”

  “Dear old Andy,” Mrs. Tiggleman said. “He was a great friend. We were so sad when he passed.”

  “We miss him dearly,” said Captain Tiggleman, “especially around this time of year.”

  “The most wonderful time of the year,” Mrs. Tiggleman said.

  “You knew Andy Williams?” I asked them.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “We were quite close.”

  “And did you know Claudine Longet too?” I asked. “I am fascinated with her.”

  “Of course, dear. Never has this town seen a more beautiful woman. Until your arrival tonight.”

  “Shame we don’t see her anymore,” Mr. Tiggleman said. “But after the murder she became very withdrawn. Estranged even from her oldest friends.”

  “What murder?” Jules asked.

  “You’ve never heard of the Spider Sabich murder?” Bobby Alpine said.

  A few of the other young Calhoun + Calhoun agents said they hadn’t either. I quickly, excitedly ran it down for them. The Secret Santa was temporarily halted. Everyone sat listening, riveted. Even Dave came in from the kitchen to hear.

  “Claudine Longet was from another planet,” said Captain Tiggleman after I’d finished my recap. “Simply being in her presence was both the most exciting thing that had ever happened to you and the most devastating, since you were likely never to have the chance to know her. I mean truly know her. I’m not even sure if Andy ever knew her. Or if she knew herself. She was like a promise of a promise that would never come true.”

  “Do you think she meant to kill Spider?” I asked.

  Mrs. Tiggleman tried to raise her eyebrows
as much as her plastic surgery would allow, then sighed.

  “I’m not sure. When you get to my age, if you’re lucky, you realize you can’t ever understand why people do what they do. Did she kill him? Yes. Had they been on the verge of a breakup? Maybe. Was she out of her mind that Sunday afternoon? Perhaps.”

  “The diaries, right?” I asked. “The ones that were inadmissible in court. Supposedly they indicated her deep, deep unhappiness—”

  “It would take more than a few diary entries expressing unhappiness to convince me she killed him with great intent,” Mrs. Tiggleman said, sounding like someone who had made a few diary entries of her own expressing unhappiness. “No, I don’t believe she did.”

  “And Andy certainly didn’t,” said Mr. Tiggleman. “Which was good enough for us.”

  “This town is full of crazy stories like that,” said Kevin. “There was Ted Bundy killing Caryn Campbell, then escaping from the Pitkin County Courthouse.”

  “Then, after they caught him and transferred him to Glenwood Springs, he escaped again,” said Jack Alpine.

  “Full of crazy stories like that,” Jerry said. “The murder of Nancy Pfister.”

  “Yeah, that was awful,” Louisa said. “I mean, they found her in a suitcase.”

  “It was a trash bag,” Rashida corrected.

  “And of course the two murders that happened right on this very property,” Bobby Alpine said.

  “Who could forget that one?” Steve chimed in.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Tiggleman said. “Jonathan Miller and that young boy. Don’t remember his name. I nearly forgot about that.”

  “Who is Jonathan Miller?” I asked.

  “It’s a horrible story,” Mr. Tiggleman.

  “Very gruesome,” Jack Alpine.

  I wasn’t looking at Claudine or Henry just then but I wish I had been. I wish I would’ve seen what their reaction was.

  Claudine

  Claudine sat in horror listening to various members of the group recount the Miller murders. None of them could remember the details exactly.

  “A double suicide, wasn’t it?”

  “No, the kid tried to kill the old man for money and the old man fought back.”

  “I thought it was the other way around. I thought Miller was the aggressor and the kid was defending himself.”

  “I just remember hearing the cabin was drenched in blood, like when the elevator doors open in The Shining.”

  Whoever had brought the statue to the Secret Santa—was this part of their plan? Was this another phase of their torture? Bobby Alpine had been the one to first mention it. But would he reveal himself so blatantly?

  “The only one who made it out of that travesty alive was Claudine and Henry,” Steve said.

  Claudine looked at Henry. He had a glass of something brown in his hand. How easy, how weak of him. That stupid bartender. She told him not to let Henry drink. She watched him tilt the glass all the way back, swallow the liquid in one gulp, and head back for a refill. Well, forget counting on him.

  She worried her silence was incriminating. She remembered what she had told Henry: Outplay the player.

  “Better than alive,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how cheap we were able to get this land. Everyone was scared off by the murders. Developers never thought anyone would want to live on a property with such a sordid history. But this is the American West. Show me a piece of land that hasn’t had blood spilled on it. Do you know how many bodies are buried in these mountains? Between the Utes and the miners, this entire state is a graveyard.”

  “A graveyard with a very expensive lift ticket.” Good, if she let Steve talk long enough he was bound to embarrass himself like this poor, tasteless joke that fell flat.

  “It’s true,” Kevin said as he selected a gift from the table. “So many merciless stories.”

  “Very true,” Jerry said.

  “Henry and I knew that people have short memories. Eventually they’d be willing to overlook what happened here for the sake of the view. And we were right. When we sold the house to the Lions, we made back twenty times our original investment. What’s the most you ever profited from a sale, Steve?”

  She took a sip from her glass. Kevin and Jerry were jumping up and down, Kevin having unwrapped front-row seats and backstage passes to Zara’s MGM show next fall. The celebration didn’t last long, because Steve’s turn was next and he took them.

  “Give those back to Kevin.” Henry’s voice was loud. But it was too late to stop him. “I’m sorry—or actually I’m not sorry. Steve, you were not invited here. Look around this room, every person, every guest, received something called an invitation. Do you know what that means? You think everything is yours. Everything is not yours. Do you hear me? Can you understand that?”

  “You’re drunk, Henry,” Steve said dismissively. Then he turned to Zara. “It really only matters what you think. Would you be comfortable living in the same spot where two people savagely killed each other?”

  The whole room turned to look at Zara.

  “Well, as long as the place isn’t haunted, right?”

  And just as she said that, the lights went out.

  Months later, I went back to see the detective—the one I had spoken to before. I knew it was pointless to mention the sale of the land to the Calhouns. That wasn’t why I was there.

  I told him about my situation. Not that I needed to. I was eight months pregnant and huge. I sensed that he felt sorry for me. He believed Tommy was a killer and that one day I would have to explain this to my child. I used his sympathy to my advantage. I asked him about the statue. What happened to that kind of evidence when a case was closed? Was there any way I could get it back? My father had sculpted it and I wanted to pass it down to his grandchild.

  He said usually they kept that kind of evidence permanently. I just stood there looking at him until he sighed and left the room. When he came back, he had the statue in a clear Ziploc bag. I didn’t even have to sign a piece of paper.

  I wasn’t lying. This was an heirloom, I wanted my child to feel a connection to our ancestry. But I also wanted it in case the time ever came that it could be used it to clear Tommy’s name. I had no idea how that could happen. Certainly not without putting myself in jeopardy. The Calhouns were dangerous people. They couldn’t be underestimated. But maybe one day an opportunity would present itself. Maybe one day the statue could be used to bring them down. To find some justice.

  Henry

  They were all in on it.

  That was what Henry was thinking as the group discussed the Miller murders.

  Wasn’t that how that Agatha Christie train mystery ends? They all did it? So fed up with Claudine’s bullshit, they had banded together and came up with this scheme to ruin the two of them in the most cruel way possible? Maybe they hired Zara to play her part. He’d heard of pop stars getting paid seven figures to play birthday parties for rich people. Maybe Zara cut them a deal, since it was for a good cause: finally bringing the Calhouns to justice.

  Henry took a big swig of his Manhattan. He forgot how much he missed making a good cocktail. He loved all the steps, how methodical you had to be. The ice, the pour, the clink of the shaker top, the adultery. The shake, the ice, the pour, the homicide. The clink of the spoon, the twist of orange, the double homicide. The splash of the cherry on a toothpick when it hit the drink, signaling it was ready. The bartender didn’t have any toothpicks. One detail Claudine managed to overlook. The party was toothpick-less. But the drink still tasted wonderful. Closing his eyes, he took another long, necessary sip. The warmth spread throughout his body, a reunion he thought would never come. An old friend.

  He got up to get another one. Then the lights went out, plunging the room into semi-darkness. The flames of the fire and scattering of candles the only sources of light. Gasps and nervous whispers. Pip started barking. Dave quickly hurried to Zara’s side. In the limited light, the outside became much brighter, the trees and mountains gaini
ng an eerie definition visible through the snow.

  “Must be the storm,” Jack Alpine said. “Knocked out power.”

  “Do we have any more candles?” Mrs. Tiggleman said.

  “I’ll get them,” Henry said. “I’m already up.”

  “I know where they are,” Jules said. “I’ll go with you.”

  The two of them walked down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “They’re in here,” Jules said, opening a side door. “In the pantry.”

  She quickly shoved him inside, and unsuccessfully flipped the light switch a few times. Nothing. Still, she closed the door. The space was cramped, just barely enough room for the two of them. It smelled of spices and her perfume. Henry felt along the top shelf and found the box of dinner candles. He struck a long match on the side of the box and lit one.

  “Henry,” Jules said, “I need to confess something. I … I know what happened.”

  She knows what happened? She was the last person Henry would have guessed. Which of course made her the obvious choice. Wasn’t that also how it worked in those Agatha Christie books? The kindest, gentlest character turned out to be the duplicitous mastermind. It was ironic: all those late nights in the office, he’d been tempted to tell her, and he didn’t have to. She already knew. Now he was what, supposed to confess? Redeem himself a tiny bit by turning himself in?

  “How did you find out?” he asked.

  “Everybody in the office talks about it behind your back,” she said.

  “What? Everybody knows? Why hasn’t anyone said anything?”

  “They don’t want to embarrass you. It happened so long ago. They figure it isn’t their business.”

  Henry was confused.