3 Requiem at Christmas

by Melanie Jackson

  The weather had improved while she was prancing up and down in front of the store mirrors, and she decided that she would drop off her packages in her room and then venture over to the fair to see what was new in the world of bagpipes and the Clan Buchanan.

  She made one more stop. Winter’s Candies and Confections was tucked behind a display of straw reindeer next to a tanning salon. The shop was too crowded to tempt her to make a purchase, but she noticed that all their candies—chocolates, jellies, or hard-boiled sugar—were all wrapped in seasonal red and green foil. The sign on the door had been reprinted on the gift bags people were carrying and neither mentioned any other locations. The dead man had gotten his candy here.

  Deciding she had had enough of fresh air and snow, Juliet chose to spring for a sleigh ride back to the inn. It was pleasant enough being pulled along behind a horse, but she had to admit that it would be a better activity with a partner along for the ride.

  Still in a social frame of mind, when Juliet ran into Raphael in the elevator she impulsively asked him if he would like to go to the fair with her. He considered for only a moment but then agreed. They synchronized watches and arranged to meet in the lobby in ten minutes. She liked Raphael a lot. It was wonderful to be herself—her full self—and not leave her companion bewildered.

  Juliet put the coincidence of the candy out of her mind as she ran a brush through her turbulent hair whose wildness would only be subdued by a hat.

  So the dead man had bought candy there—so what? She wasn’t going to think about the killing any more. She had already decided that. She was going to the fair to see friends and eat bad food and listen to Celtic music.

  Chapter 4

  The killer huddled under the covers, cradling a bottle of scotch and trying to get warm. The motel was a cheap one, but they took cash and didn’t check ID. Anyway, with the weather so bad, he had been lucky to get back out to the road and to find someone to give him a lift. As soon as it was light he would have breakfast and rent a car—then arrive at the Aspens bright and early. He had the room key he’d taken from the sporran. If the police hadn’t gotten in to search then there was still a chance that he could fix things.

  * * *

  “My father loved Christmas,” Raphael said as they strolled—and rolled—toward the park where the fair was being held. The path from the inn had been cleared and salted. The crystals made an odd crunching sound under Raphael’s wheels.

  The park, too, was clear of snow, and there had been no trouble getting to the clan tents which were soggy but still standing. Juliet had deliberately taken them by the marquee for Clan Buchanan, hoping to hear something of interest, but obviously word of the killing hadn’t reached them, though one woman asked where Holtz had gotten too. The red-haired boy passing out flyers for the ceilidh fundraiser of Alba gu bràth had suggested that maybe he was at singing practice.

  Juliet blinked at Raphael’s words and stopped thinking about the Cornish pasties that smelled wonderful but which would coagulate in her stomach and give her indigestion all afternoon. Of course Raphael had had parents and there was no reason that one of them shouldn’t have liked Christmas. It was just that the artist was so completely an adult and so above regular human failing that one tended to forget that he had had a human childhood and to think that he had been self-engendered—born whole and mature like some of the Greek gods.

  Juliet tried to think of a conventional reply. She was not sure that she wanted to admit to anyone how severely her Christmas spirit had been amputated and that she pretty much abjured all Christmas traditions. She didn’t need to spread-eagle her feelings about Christmases past and ruin his fun.

  Raphael looked up and shook his head. His eyes were sympathetic. It was comforting to be with someone who understood her mood even if he didn’t share it. And the other way around too. Sometimes she found being around people was fatiguing. But not Raphael.

  “There’s Hans,” Juliet said, still not sure how to answer Raphael’s observation and knowing that he hadn’t been trying to head the conversation in any particular direction. “Business looks good.”

  Hans Dillmeyer had paid for a booth at the fair. He carved many things in wood, but specialized in crèche—old European-style manger scenes, though he was not such a slave to Christian iconography that customers could not purchase new world animals for one’s manger if one wanted a couple of llamas or bison to adore the baby Jesus.

  Hans was wearing some version of lederhosen that suggested he belonged more to the Tyrol than to the Gaels, but the green wool and rakish hat rather made him look like a leprechaun and his smile was infectious. No one seemed to mind the geographic off-note. In fact his table was swamped with customers and Juliet did no more than wave.

  They found Rose at the end of the aisle near the stage where a harpist was performing, and she was also doing a booming business. A lot of people apparently liked itchy goat sweaters in bright Christmas colors.

  “You’re enjoying yourself?” Raphael asked. The noise level was fairly high inside the giant tent.

  “Oddly enough, yes. And you?”

  “Yes, though like you I find it a bit odd, this dressing up when it isn’t Halloween.”

  Celtic festivals, Renaissance fairs, and the like were not Juliet’s favorite venue, partly because she usually ended up dressed as a wench which added no credibility to her claim to be a serious artist, but also because she didn’t understand the mentality of those who liked to dress up in costumes and pretend to be something they were not. Too many years of trying to get through the lies and illusions of everyday life, she supposed. People probably couldn’t help their unconscious lies and exaggerations, but going out and inventing ones deliberately seemed very weird, not to mention that they were like termites chewing up the real culture and history of the Gaelic people and replacing it with … filler which was mainly excrement.

  Being there was like drinking carbonated scotch or scratching in public, and it had no relevance to her life.

  But all that prejudice against costumes and faux-cultural experiences was wiped away when she saw the beautiful white wool cape, lined in amber satin and embroidered in heavy gold thread with Celtic knots around the hem.

  “Oohhh, the Snow Queen,” she breathed, making a noise very much like something Carrie Simmons would emit if she saw her favorite boy band.

  Raphael turned his head to follow her gaze.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “Oh … no … I, uh….”

  “Go,” he said. “It would suit you. I’ll be over here sampling the scotch. I have been wondering what Stag’s Breath tastes like.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked, but he had already turned away.

  The cloak was not inexpensive, but Juliet was so in love with the image in the mirror that she decided she could live on beans and toast for the rest of the month so she wouldn’t have to eat into any of her investments.

  “Would you like me to put that in a garment bag for you?” the tartan-wrapped proprietress asked.

  “No. I’ll wear it. You can wrap up my coat instead.”

  She joined Raphael at the scotch tasting booth which was really a series of long tables. Juliet stayed back from the somewhat sticky Formica. She was already feeling uneasy about wearing white in a park.

  “How is the Stag’s Breath?” she asked.

  “Not as nice as your cloak,” he answered, setting down his glass. The liquor was barely touched.

  “Maybe you should keep it for paint stripper,” she suggested.

  “It would ruin my brushes. Shall we be off?”

  “Did you want to see more of the fair?” she asked. “There is a bagpipe competition starting in about ten minutes. Or Clan Buchanan is giving a demonstration in the use of medieval weapons—claymores, bows and arrows, and sgian dubhs.”

  “I so rarely use medieval weapons anymore. I blame Eliphalet Remington. And I wouldn’t dream of tarrying here when I can tell you ha
ve something else in mind.”

  “I was thinking of dropping in on Harrison and seeing how rehearsals are going. I am very glad that there was an understudy for the tenor. I know how important this performance is to him.”

  “Let’s head for the church then,” Raphael said agreeably. “I haven’t seen it yet and I am told it is an architectural masterpiece.”

  “The pictures are gorgeous. I guess the acoustics are tricky for recording, but Darby sounded like they had figured it all out.” Juliet realized she was chattering about things he already knew and made herself stop.

  Saint Clair Church was all that Darby had said it was and more, though the chalet-like outside gave little hint of the visual treasure within. Some people like their churches filled with art, but nothing could match the majesty of the view from the giant windows. Postcards could not do full justice to the scale of the building, the warmth of its wood beams, or the beauty of the giant windows that looked out on the snowy woods and the mountains beyond.

  Raphael and Juliet stayed to the back of the hall since rehearsals were in progress and various technicians were doing something complicated with wires. The sound was lovely, but Juliet found her eyes passing over the people in the audience instead of resting on the singers. The day had been lovely, a holiday paradise, but she had not forgotten that a member of the choir had been murdered the day before and they had no idea why.

  A man in the fourth row caught her eye. He was sitting sidewise, his face in profile. Something about him seemed familiar, though after a moment Juliet realized that it wasn’t specifically his face she was reacting to so much as his type.

  From her old job, Juliet knew a bit about politicians and crooks of other stripes. Some men—the rich or powerful, but usually men who were both—seemed to be the center of a lot of orbiting bodies. Their satellites’ paths weren’t always elliptical and they could alter course at a look or a nod from the dark star who hired them. They might travel around in expensive cars, hover in doorways obstructing routes, or move down dark alleys in the small hours of the night with God only knew what lurking in their hearts. The orbiters almost always carried guns. Almost always. There seemed to be an exception for the money men—the clever accountants who did math like nobody else—and of course for the lawyers who used other kinds of weapons to defend their clients.

  She had only vague notions of what made up the modern mafia since her attention had usually been turned to threats outside the nation’s borders and what happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas, at least as far as her department was concerned. Still she recognized the outlines of an individual who was living outside the law and in the spiritual homeland of greed and nonpolitical power. It got her hackles up.

  One of the orbiters turned to study her and Raphael. Juliet smiled vapidly and did her best to look like a harmless older lady as the man in the fourth row with the blue jowls, thick wrists, and fingernails that gleamed like diamonds also turned and looked her over with dead eyes. Raphael got no more than a passing glance. Men in wheelchairs weren’t anything to worry about, his gaze said. Which only went to show that this creature wasn’t very bright, or, as her boss used to say, “He could probably count to six but only if he was masturbating.” How dare he just dismiss a man who had ten times their integrity and a hundred times their combined talent?

  “It’s for the best, you know,” Raphael said quietly as Mr. No-neck turned away. “Sometimes it is convenient to be underestimated. So please don’t go over and punch him in the nose.”

  “I won’t,” she answered, relaxing and even managing a small smile. “There were days that I only survived at work by letting everyone think that my greatest gift was in my brassiere.”

  Raphael laughed quietly.

  “Did you ever cheat?”

  “Wear a padded bra, do you mean? If I had enough warning. And my boss encouraged me. He didn’t want anyone else to know how good I was at my job and try to steal me for other projects. We both preferred that I be thought of as a pretty coffee-fetcher.”

  Juliet thought again about how little she missed her job. It hadn’t been fun being a human database and lie detector that spent every waking hour looking for men like the neckless creature. Her hours were more happily spent with her easel and paints among people who also preferred art to intrigue.

  She wondered, if there hadn’t been a murder, if she hadn’t seen the torn body, would she even be suspicious of this stranger?

  The dark star stood suddenly and began walking for the exit. He had on expensive shoes but didn’t look as though he was comfortable in them. He didn’t wear his suit well either, though his tailor had done a great job of hiding his figure. He wasn’t old money or power. Old money would walk all over a person, but do it gracefully. This guy stomped like he was looking for someone to kick.

  He was also the last type of person she expected to see at either a Celtic festival or a Requiem Mass, being neither given to frivolous entertainment or higher spiritual pursuits. She counted three men who were circling the very earthy body, pulling tight as they left the building.

  Yes, even without a body, she would have been suspicious of this one.

  “Now that is a surprise,” Juliet said softly.

  “Indeed. I wonder if he is a patron. Some of them use the arts as a tax write-off.”

  “Not of this event. Harrison got a grant. I don’t like to judge a book by its cover—”

  “But sometimes the cover gets it exactly right,” he said. “And I think we may conclude at least two things. Three, if we include the almost certain fact that he is likely involved in the killing.”

  She was glad that she wasn’t alone in her suspicions.

  “One, that whatever Mr. No-neck wants has not yet been found? Because he wants something, right?”

  “Correct—or he wouldn’t be here. The question is—”

  “—did the killer find what he was after when Holtz was dead and take it for himself? Or was he premature with the knife, leaving the unknown commodity to still be discovered by any interested party?” she finished.

  There was a small shriek from the front of the room and the singing stopped.

  Harrison was rubbing his face while the tenor and soprano hissed at one another. There was no yelling as that might damage their voices.

  “I think that’s our cue,” Juliet said. “Damn it. I didn’t want to get involved in this.”

  “Juliet. Raphael,” Harrison said in surprise and some relief when he looked up and saw them. For a young man, he was looking surprisingly haggard. “It’s good of you to look in on rehearsals.” He turned to the squabbling singers. His voice was mild but reproving. Harrison did not think it despicable to be efficient and professional in one’s work, and had little patience for divas that ruined his schedule. “I’m sure you two will excuse me for a moment. I sincerely hope that the morning’s bitching will be done by the time I come back. If the critics’ reviews are going to upset you this much, I suggest you stop reading them. For heaven’s sake, don’t listen to anything that anyone says until the real performance.”

  The short blonde and shorter black-haired man both blinked, looking a bit like children who are startled by someone throwing on a light when they’ve been hiding in the closet. The basso stared off into space, bored. The alto had already left the stage for the restroom. The soprano though was either fascinated or horrified by Raphael’s wheelchair and couldn’t look away. Juliet found she had an urge to throw something at her.

  Harrison gestured them toward a pew, then he pulled a red foil candy out of his pocket and unwrapped it. The yellow candy inside looked a bit like a glass marble. He noticed her attention and reached in his pocket to offer her one.

  “They’re good. Holtz got them for everyone. It is so wrong that he should die now. The man was almost euphoric the morning that he died.”

  Holtz. The car full of red and green wrappers. She had been right about the sweet tooth, though the wrapping was folded differently. These candies�
� wrappers had been twisted on both ends. The ones in the car were folded into rectangles, but other than that, they were the same.

  “Oh. No thanks. My teeth don’t like the hard stuff.”

  He turned to Raphael who also declined the candy.

  “Every job has its rituals,” Juliet said. “Why not kill a critic in effigy? It might help with pre-performance jitters and boost morale. You don’t have to do it in the church,” she said to Harrison, thinking to the blood sacrifices—mostly metaphorical—of Monday morning meetings with the heads of the various divisions of the NSA. She had had to sit in for her boss on occasion and thought of it as breakfasting with the Borgias since it came with poisonous infighting and attempted character assassination. She usually managed to stay out of fights by pretending to be stupid and fetching coffee. Still, she had to admit that nothing she had faced there had been half so savage as the attacks of some art critics. She supposed it was as bad for musicians.

  “If we didn’t have a homicide detective hanging around I might consider it. As it is, that might be bad form. Besides, I think it is mainly worry about Jim—the understudy—stepping in for Holtz that has everyone upset. Jim is good but he isn’t a name. Holtz had even been asked to go to China on some cultural exchange program next month.”

  “So someone has finally come to interview us about the murder? They didn’t set any speed records, did they?”

  “Yes, a Captain David Denver finally arrived this morning. Apparently he’s been checking up on everyone from the Woods and Sheriff Garret has given us good character references. And thank God for it, because this guy is not one of the kinder and gentler policemen.”

  “Is he stupid?” Juliet asked.

  “No. Just pissed off. I guess he thought they would make it through the month without a murder.”

  “Did he say anything about the power man in the expensive suit watching rehearsals?”