The Secret Santa

by Trish Harnetiaux

  “That’s how you think this ends?” she said. “Sorry to disappoint. The police had the statue back then and it didn’t make any difference. So unless you’ve got a confession—”

  The bartender took his hand out of his jacket pocket. He was holding a small digital voice recorder. Hardly surprising. She counted on it. And yet she hadn’t spoken carefully or avoided saying anything that could be held against her in court. What did she care? She would get that device from him just as surely as she would get that statue from Zara.

  Claudine took a step toward him, inching the knife out of her sleeve. “Why so much drama?” she asked. “You should have swung by the office. We could have talked.”

  “I’m not dumb. What could be better than this? A house full of your friends and employees plus a super famous pop star and her enormous bodyguard. The stakes are too high for you to pull anything here. But alone? Not a chance. Who’s to say your husband wouldn’t try and kill me like he did my father and Mr. Miller?”

  “My husband?”

  Claudine began laughing. Laughing and laughing. The bartender looked uncertain.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “You think my husband is a killer?”

  “I know he is,” the bartender said. “And, given the chance, I’m sure he’d kill again.”

  Claudine unsheathed the knife from her sleeve. He was backed into a corner, the only options to jump off the deck and over a cliff or go straight through her.

  “Henry kill again?” she said. “That would mean he’s killed before. Henry didn’t kill your father. I did.”

  Henry

  He’d been wrong. It was only the bartender she followed outside. No doubt to yell at him about Henry’s drinking. He was about to call out to her, tell her to lay off, leave the kid alone, this was his fault, when their voices reached him. He stood and listened.

  “Henry kill again? That would mean he’s killed before. Henry didn’t kill your father. I did.”

  What was she saying? And why was she saying it to the bartender? He didn’t understand. The booze wasn’t helping. But still, he wrapped his fingers tighter around his drink, processing what he’d overheard.

  “Claudine?”

  Her back flinched when she heard her name.

  “Claudine. What’s going on?”

  She turned around. The knife blade flashed in her hand.

  “Henry, dear, meet—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Thomas,” the bartender said. He looked frightened.

  “Well, of course it is,” Claudine said. “Henry, this is Thomas James Cooke. He’s named after his father. Who you killed. No, I’m sorry, whom I killed?”

  “Who you killed?” A queasiness spread through him.

  “Henry, do you really think that you—you—beat an old man to death? Pounded in his head, then grabbed a shotgun and unloaded it into the strong young man who was coming to his aid? That’s truly comical. You did what you always did. What’s in your very nature. Even tonight. You drank. You were drunk when I found you at the house and you drank yourself to sleep in the car. Passed out by the time we arrived. Exactly what was supposed to happen. You played your role perfectly.”

  There it was. An answer to something that had always bothered him. This was why she hadn’t complained about his drinking before the murders. But it didn’t answer everything.

  “I don’t understand why—”

  “Stop saying that,” she cut him off. “You do understand. You can’t always run around not understanding. Try harder, Henry. Try harder to understand. If I hadn’t done it, our entire lives never would have happened.”

  “Why did you have to kill them?”

  “I was tired of waiting, Henry! What can I say? I’m impatient. Same reason I fucked Steve. And this whole exchange is growing tedious.”

  A horrible thought came over Henry.

  “That night when you came home … did Mr. Miller even hit you?”

  “Sure he did. The same way young Thomas here beat me up tonight.”

  “I haven’t touched you,” Thomas said.

  “Hmmm, let’s see. I haven’t had much time to think. The Miller story took me a couple weeks to come up with. But here it goes: The game finished and I was coming out for air. You were, what?” Claudine glanced toward a tub full of champagne bottles keeping cold outside. “You were grabbing more champagne. Then what? You tried to force yourself on me. No, too cliché. Too generic. A good lie is about the details. You wanted more money. Were unhappy with the tip I gave you. Obsessed with the night’s casual display of wealth. Jealous of all the incredible gifts that were opened. That’s better. You lashed out and threw me against the pillar.”

  At that, Claudine violently smashed her forehead onto a corner of the nearby support beam. It cut through her skin instantly. Dark, pitch-black blood gushed down her face.

  “Jesus!” cried Thomas.

  Henry was too stunned to speak.

  Claudine

  “I was scared for my life,” Claudine continued. “I’ve never been so afraid. But Thomas had set this knife down by the champagne.”

  She used her knife as a pointer as she spoke.

  “Earlier it was helpful cutting off the foil caps on the champagne before bringing them inside. That was it. I walked out and made a comment about the knife. Joked how sharp those things were. He told me the blade on his wine opener was too dull. See what I mean? Details. After he hit me, it was pure luck that I got to the knife first. It could have gone either way. I just stabbed what I could and happened to catch an artery. A simple case of self-defense.”

  Panic flashed in Thomas’s eyes. Claudine’s face was a bloody wreck. She made it worse by repeatedly smearing it so it wouldn’t blur her vision. Henry was having trouble breathing. He was clutching his arm.

  “No, Claudine,” he said.

  “You’re right, Henry,” she said. “You’re so right. It’s much more believable if you do it. Just like it was for the Miller story. Much more likely that you’d overpower this strong young man. Get to the knife first. Come to think of it, Thomas, you’re about the same age as your father was then. That kind of symmetry might get you an extra write-up in the Aspen Tribune. How about this: Henry, noticing I’ve been gone from the party too long, comes out to find me. He sees the bartender toss me into the pillar, grabs the knife, and without thinking plunges it into his chest. A hero.”

  The bartender made a motion to get past Claudine, but she instantly countered, blocking his way.

  “Henry, here is your chance. You always thought you were a murderer. Tonight you finally get to become one.”

  Laying the knife flat on her palm, she offered the blade to Henry.

  “You know exactly what you have to do.”

  Henry

  He looked at the knife, then at Thomas, then back at the knife.

  The sound of familiar carols crept out from inside.

  “Deck the halls with boughs of holly / Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la …”

  His left arm was completely numb now. His heart slamming in his chest.

  “Henry, this will end it once and for all,” Claudine said. “You want to retire? Close up shop? You want to leave Aspen? Let’s do it. But we can’t leave any loose ends. You have to do this.”

  He tried to slow his breathing but couldn’t. He was gulping for air now.

  “No, Claudine,” Henry said between gasps. “There isn’t a world that exists where I kill him.”

  “Fine,” Claudine said. “Then I will.”

  With a quick flip of her wrist she now held the knife the proper way. Blade out, she lunged at the bartender.

  “No!” he yelled, rushing at her. He grabbed her knife hand, and fought to wrench the weapon away.

  “Let go of me!” she said, thrashing to break free.

  He managed to hold his arms up, protecting himself and pushing her to the side, throwing her off-balance so that she landed in the snow.

  There wo
uld be no atonement, he knew that. Keeping her from killing Thomas would never change the fact they had killed his father. And yes, it was both of them who had done it. Claudine might have been the one who swung the statue and fired the rifle, but Henry stayed silent. Weak. He was to blame. If he could get the knife out of her hand, he and Thomas could take her. Two on one. Hold her down until the police arrived. He was ready to accept the consequences. Ready to tell them everything. The nightmare would be over.

  Suddenly he staggered backward, clutching his chest. He tried to steady himself by holding on to one of the deck chairs but lost his grip and collapsed like a felled tree into the soft white powder, his heart stopping before he hit the ground.

  Claudine

  There was a brief moment of silence as Claudine waited for him to rise, but the outline of his body was very still. He didn’t get up. Without taking her eyes from Thomas, or lowering the knife, she knelt by Henry’s side. His face was still warm. Stealing a glance, she saw his eyes half open, staring blankly. No pulse. Her pain was sharp. Just like that, their chapter ends. They were over. Since the day they met, she’d actually never imagined her life without him.

  “Poor Henry,” she said. It was the sudden peal of laughter from inside that jarred her back. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed killing him.

  This way he goes out as more of a hero than a victim. People will remember his bravery. His funeral will be well attended. Not yours, though.”

  She raised the knife high above her head.

  “No,” Thomas pleaded. “You don’t have to do this. Please.”

  A million thoughts flooded through her. She’d whip up some tears and run back into the party. She’d struggle to get the words out. Bartender … slammed me … Henry … tried to stop him … heart attack … grabbed the knife … stabbed him … The investigation would be quick. Unlike the Miller murders, they had witnesses. The party guests. They would believe her. It might take a little while for the house to sell, to escape another blemish of tragedy, but eventually it would. People always forgot. Even though Zara was a lost cause, Claudine would still get notoriety. She’d be known as a fighter, a survivor. Maybe she’d appear on talk shows, get a book deal, go on the lecture circuit. She’d be bigger than ever. She’d have to change the stationery and the sign on the office door. What would she call it? Not Calhoun Realty. Something more ambitious. The Calhoun Agency. That was better. Or maybe the Calhoun Company. The alliteration was a nice touch—

  Hit from behind, Claudine dropped to the ground.

  Zara stood over her body, breathless. She was holding the cowboy statue she’d hit her with. Already there was a light dusting of snow on Henry who lay by her side. They’d fallen in a V shape, their hands reaching for each other’s but not touching. Pip scurried over and sniffed them. Pomeranians aren’t known to spontaneously howl, but the dog tipped her tiny face up to the sky and let out a sorrowful song.

  Zara

  Listen, I don’t consider myself a hero, but I know a lot of people do.

  I’d been looking for the bartender, to say goodbye. Fine, to slip him my number. That’s the only reason I went out there. From the living room, none of us could see Claudine and Henry and Thomas arguing. The snow was coming down too hard. And you couldn’t hear them, either, thanks to the soundproof triple-paned picture windows Henry had originally installed in the house. Plus there was so much commotion about the extra present and everyone deciding what to do next. People were pretty tipsy. They all started caroling, even gathering around the piano and singing “Deck the Halls.”

  I can’t tell you what I was thinking when I hit Claudine. I wasn’t thinking anything. I just reacted. The statue was small but heavy. Like, twice what one of my Grammys weighs. I caught her right at the base of the neck, which was probably good. Any higher up and I might’ve killed her like she did with the old man. I’m not sure how I would’ve handled killing someone, even someone as nasty as Claudine. Not just the murders but lying about Mr. Miller’s abuse and planning to do the same with Thomas. That’s so disgusting. If I had killed Claudine, she never would have been dead. Killing her would have linked her to me forever.

  At first I felt responsible for Henry’s death. If we’d been able to get the paramedics there sooner, maybe they could have saved him. I wasn’t getting cell service because of the storm, neither was Thomas, and apparently Claudine had locked away everyone else’s phones in the house safe. Nobody knew the combination. I had Dave pry it open with the fireplace stoker. Once they were called, it took them a while to get there, the roads were terrible. That night turned out to be a historic snowfall for Aspen. It missed breaking the single-day record by like an inch. When the paramedics finally arrived, they confirmed that Henry was dead; later on an autopsy indicated his heart had stopped cold. It was quick and probably painless.

  Claudine was just starting to come out of it. We had moved both her and Henry into the living room. There was a big conversation about whether or not that was the right thing to do. We had all seen enough crime shows to know you’re not supposed to touch any evidence at an actual crime scene. But Thomas and I had witnessed the whole thing. There was no mystery to solve. What were we going to do, leave them in the snow? We didn’t want Claudine to freeze to death, and it didn’t feel right with Henry out there by himself with the snow piling on top of him. Thomas took a video of the scene before we moved them, in case the police needed it for reference.

  We also had a conversation about whether or not Claudine should be tied up. That one was much shorter. We agreed it was a smart move. It felt like there was a real chance she would wake up and somehow manage to take us all out. So Captain Tiggleman used some salvaged ribbon to tie her hands and feet in what he called a bowline knot. I’m pretty sure it was the ribbon from Henry’s gift. Somewhere in the mix Rashida had opened a set of three rare broken tulip bulbs. They weren’t broken-broken, that’s just the name of them. Jules told us they were his favorite. The broken kind bloomed in multicolored patterns, their beauty the result of a virus. During their brief life they are beautiful but sick and die early. For a while I couldn’t figure out which Claudine’s was, but after Steve stole my tickets from Kevin, he’d ended up with her gift. It was fitting. Six runs heli-skiing in the Elk Mountains. People were saying it wasn’t even legal, but somehow she’d arranged it. There’s no way Kevin’s doing a chopper drop.

  The police showed up at the same time as the paramedics. They took statements from all of us. It was surreal. Then, soon everyone started to leave. I stuck around. I still wanted to give Thomas my number, and the police kept him the longest. I was there when he showed them the letter from his mom and explained about the statue. Once again the cops bagged it as evidence. I asked them if I could have it back when they were done with it. They said they’d let me know. It’s been six months and I haven’t heard anything. Looks like they’re being extra cautious after hearing how easily Thomas’s mom got it back.

  I’d be lying if I said the past six months haven’t been intense. Only now has the news coverage started dying down. I thought I had it bad with the paparazzi before. I had no idea. They were after me twenty-four seven. We even had to bring on a couple extra security guys to help Dave out. Being in the center of a story like this has totally made me rethink my obsession with Claudine Longet and true crime in general. It seems so interesting and almost sexy when you’re looking in from the outside, watching it on a screen. You’re a voyeur. It’s entertainment. But when you’re on the inside, when you’re directly involved with a case of humanity gone bad? There’s nothing sexy about it. It’s not fun to follow and shout out ideas and theories. It’s sad and awful. The people whose lives are affected are real. I had been so enamored with that People cover of Claudine, all those photos of her and Andy walking into the courthouse—how beautiful, defiant, and glamorous she looked. Now the thing I think about the most is her kids being in the house that night she shot Spider. Then how she sent them all outside to wait for the ambulance. I
picture them all crowded on the front porch in silence. Listening to the sirens get closer and closer.

  I’m sure the reason I think about this is Thomas. That’s the thing that really got the paparazzi going: him moving to L.A. with me. He needed a fresh start. There were photos of us all over Twitter. Then on every supermarket tabloid:

  A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE: ZARA SAVES LIVES AND FINDS LOVE AT ASPEN SOIRÉE

  THE COLORADO KID: THE TRAGIC TRUE STORY OF ZARA’S NEW BEAU

  LIAM WHO? THOMAS COOKE HELPS ZARA GET HER GROOVE BACK

  Okay, I have to admit, I liked that last one.

  So far things between Thomas and me are going great. I told him not to worry about finding a job for a while. I’m starting my tour in a few weeks, and he’s coming with. In the meantime I suggested he take surfing lessons or some TM sessions. Try on California. He’s doing those things but he can’t stand not working, so he’s tending bar a couple nights a week at a dive in Eagle Rock. Which is perfect. I don’t want to say the name because I don’t want anyone going there besides me and the regulars. I love it. Go in exhausted after my tour rehearsals. Just sit at the end of the bar with the locals. We small talk when things are slow. Nobody cares that I’m there. It’s nice for a change. The only problem we’re having is I think Pip likes him better than me.

  As for the other Claudine, my Claudine, her trial was even quicker than Claudine Longet’s. We briefly had to go back, both called as witnesses. They had it expedited so it was in mid-January. Aspen didn’t need another high-profile murder on its hands and they wanted it over as soon as possible. This time I actually walked up the steps to the courthouse thinking about Thomas. I guess that’s because he was holding my hand. His testimony was on day one and by day two Claudine had taken a plea deal. She’ll be spending the rest of her life in prison but I think she gets nice sheets and like a window or something.