by Cindy Sample
Tom still looked worried. “Call me if you hear anything unusual. Anything at all. Please don't be a hero.”
He kissed me goodbye and once he was out the door, I promptly slammed it behind him and double locked it. I set the house alarm, something I'd never felt was necessary living in this peaceful community. But if someone evil knew where we lived, I wasn't taking a single chance.
With no car on the premises, I needed a way to get to work the next morning. Even though there was no proof of Ben's imaginary Santa Claus or a hostile intruder, I decided it would be better if the kids spent the day with their grandmother. Mother picked up all three of us. We stopped at her house first to drop off the kids. Bradford sat at the table reading the newspaper and nursing a cup of coffee, obviously quite at home in her kitchen. Were these senior citizens co-habiting?
I pushed those unwelcome thoughts aside. Despite my feelings about Bradford and his relationship with my mother, for today, I was grateful that a former police officer was there to protect my children from harm. My mother dropped me off at the bank then headed down to the Centurion real estate office in Cameron Park.
The atmosphere in the bank was somber, far from the chaotic morning we had encountered two days earlier. Tomas Novi, the chief financial officer had temporarily assumed Mr. Chandler's executive responsibilities.
A few minutes before noon, John Regan, the bank's attorney, arrived at our office. He met with Mr. Novi for over an hour then they both left the bank. The chief financial officer, whose youthful face was at odds with his mane of white hair, looked like he'd added a few more wrinkles in the last few hours.
Since Christmas Eve fell on a Saturday, the bank would be closed on Friday so our annual employee gift exchange was scheduled for three in the afternoon. Normally the “dirty Santa” version of exchanging presents produced good-natured giggles and a few snarls when someone decided they'd rather confiscate a gift that had already been opened, rather than select an unknown wrapped present.
Today the staff was subdued as we gathered by the fourteen-foot Christmas tree. Whenever a number was called, that person would quietly walk to the stack of wrapped parcels, choose an item and open it.
Vivian un-wrapped her gift—a gingerbread man cookie jar—which led to oohs and aahs from some of the female employees. As far as I was concerned, nothing says Christmas more than a gingerbread man cookie jar, but the gift was an unpleasant reminder of Irina's teddy bear jar with its dangerous contents.
Did the new widow have any other deadly items hidden in her house? Such as antifreeze? Useful not only as a coolant for a car engine but also as poison?
Stan and I left work a few minutes early. We arrived at the body shop just before they closed at five. My auto insurance covered the windshield replacement and my roadside service plan covered the rest which meant I still had a little room on my plastic for Christmas gifts. I drove back in to town and parked in one of the town lots. My head swirled with thoughts of murder and murderers, making it difficult to concentrate on my shopping.
As I strolled down Main Street, my somber mood lifted. I peeked into the festive window display of Placerville News Company. The store, founded in 1856, was crowded with other holiday shoppers also buying last minute gift items. Scents of cinnamon, pine and cloves bombarded me with nostalgic memories of my youth, of walking along the sidewalk, hand in hand with my father. My portly pop would never have been able to resist the dancing Santa in front of the Candy Strike Emporium. The candy-filled mecca almost lured me into its chocolate clutches, but I resisted.
For now. I was fairly certain there was a piece of tawny port fudge with my name on it that would require a stop before I returned home.
Placerville Hardware, the oldest hardware store west of the Mississippi was crammed from its ceiling to its wooden plank floor with every tool imaginable, as well as more culinary items than I could ever dream of using. My mother had mentioned she needed a new cast iron skillet and this store had the biggest selection in the area. They also had the largest selection of cookie jars I'd ever seen.
My hands began to tremble so I averted my eyes from the colorful display, pushing past other customers in my haste to forget the previous evening's events. By the time I reached the cashier, my hands had stopped shaking enough for me to throw in a few pieces of homemade caramel logs which were conveniently displayed next to the register.
The skillet felt like it weighed at least twenty pounds, so I decided to drop it off at my car rather than drag it all over town while I finished my errands. As I trudged down the sidewalk a large man dressed in a camouflage hunting jacket, tan cap with ear flaps and tall laced-up boots burst out of the door of the camping supply store, nearly colliding with me.
“Laurel, fate has brought us together once again.”
I summoned up a nervous half-smile. “Hi, Boris, are you off on a hunting expedition?” Since my hands have the tendency to move when I talk, I narrowly missed flattening an important part of Boris's anatomy with the shopping bag containing my cast iron gift. Fortunately, the agile dancer scooted back in time to ward off a numbing blow from the frying pan.
“Please, let me help.” Whether out of self-defense or old fashioned politeness, Boris reached out to grab the heavy bag. Since my arm ached from lugging the skillet down Main Street, I acquiesced.
“Thanks.” I directed my eyes to the forest green canvas satchel he carried in his other hand. “Are you taking time off from the studio?”
He nodded. “Yes. The studio, I close her from Christmas Eve to New Year's. The newspaper reporter from the Mountain Democrat, he is very persistent. First he calls about Dimitri and now he is calling about poor Yuri, so I think it better to disappear. In Russia, is not good idea to talk to newspaper peoples.”
With the studio closed there would be no opportunity to rehearse the wedding dance, a thought that caused me to break out in a wide smile. Boris looked startled but he responded with a grin of his own, displaying a set of canines that outmatched Count Dracula.
“I go to Tahoe. It will give me nice break to spend time in the mountains. I have a little cabin on west shore not too far from the lake. Lots of snow for cross-country skiing. You are skier, Laurel? Downhill, perhaps?”
That depended on your definition of “skier.” I owned a parka and insulated pants, ski mittens, hat and matching scarf in a beautiful turquoise and pink knit. I also had skis, poles, and boots. Given the choice of donning all that gear and schussing down the slopes or nursing hot-buttered rum in front of a roaring fireplace, it wasn't too hard to guess where you could find this skier.
I shrugged in response.
“Ah, perhaps someday we ski together.” The right corner of his bristly black moustache lifted as he winked at me. “Night skiing is very romantic, especially when there is full moon shimmering on snow-covered slopes that no one has yet traversed.”
Ah yes, nothing like the frigid night air of the mountains to unleash a woman's passion.
We reached my little car. I beeped both locks open and threw my purse in the front seat as Boris stowed the package in the back of the Prius.
“So, Laurel, have a good Christmas. I hope you get all things you deserve.”
“Umm, thanks. Have fun in the mountains.”
“I shall. You try stay out of trouble, no?” His bushy dark brows melded together resembling a pregnant caterpillar. Then his gaze turned to my recently repaired car.
Knowing me, no was probably the correct answer. But his comment made me wonder if he knew about my recent problems. I climbed into the car, turned on the ignition and waited for Boris to walk away. He stood still, his gaze contemplative, as I backed my car out of the parking space then shifted gears into drive. When I looked in the rearview mirror, he was talking on his cell phone, his expression troubled.
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* * *
THIRTY-FIVE
* * * *
A stack of mail greeted me when I arrived home, including t
wo parcels sitting on the wrought iron table on the front porch. Goody. Christmas gifts. I love presents.
I picked up a large battered box that looked like it had come via a slow freighter all the way from Kona where my brother currently resided. Hopefully it was stuffed with more of that deliciously addicting 100% Kona coffee from the big island of Hawaii. And maybe some macadamia nuts. Better yet, chocolate covered macadamia nuts.
The other package had no return address but it was postmarked from Sacramento, so it could be from my godmother, a sweet eighty-year old named Betty who loved to bake. And since I loved to eat, her presents were always a delightful surprise.
I dumped the mail and parcels on the kitchen table, anxious to discover what tasty treats were hidden inside the boxes. Pumpkin jumped on the table and pawed at the unmarked parcel. I was about to remove our playful pet when she howled, the fur on her back bristling like an outraged porcupine. She batted the box off the table then ran off.
I picked the package off the floor and examined it. It didn't appear damaged. I grabbed the scissors out of one of the kitchen drawers and with one swift motion ripped through the tape that sealed the carton from my inquisitive eyes.
Snow, in the form of those peanut-sized particles shippers use to annoy package recipients, poured down on the table, floating to the floor. Pumpkin reappeared and grabbed a few pieces with her front paws. They stuck to her nails as she tried to claw her way through them. With a puddle of white stuff pooling by my feet, I lifted another box out of the carton. It measured about one foot long and eight inches wide. Also wrapped in brown paper and sealed.
Headlights blazing up the driveway interrupted me so I went to greet the kids and my mother. They tromped into the house carrying a stack of shiny foil-wrapped packages. The time spent with their grandparent appeared to have been productive, at least from the standpoint of their wonderful mother who hoped to be on the receiving end of some of the gifts.
I returned to the kitchen and slit open the tape on the mystery package. The box revealed an unexpected surprise.
“Oh, look, Mom, it's one of those Russian nesting dolls,” Jenna said. “You know where each doll gets smaller and smaller.”
“Oh, yes. They're called matruska dolls or something like that.”
Jenna grabbed the wooden doll. The painted face smiled at us, blue eyes unblinking, the wood decorated in all three primary colors. Jenna twisted it open and as she had predicted, a tinier version was nestled inside.
Ben grabbed the little doll from Jenna and ripped it apart. Another matching pint-sized version was inside. I took it out of Ben's hands and screwed opened the head to find an even tinier doll. Almost identical to the first three painted wooden dolls yet with one slight difference—this one had a slash of red drawn right where a heart should be.
Was that red paint? Or blood?
A gift or a threat?
Never one to be interested in dolls, Ben disappeared upstairs. My mother and Jenna stared at the dolls then at me.
“Who do you think could have sent this?” Mother asked.
“I have no idea.” I examined the inside of the box for a clue to the identity of the sender.
“Is someone trying to scare us?” Jenna asked in a tremulous voice.
I shook my head, refusing to allow such a negative thought. “It's a traditional Russian present. It's probably from Irina to thank me, although...” I checked the parcel; the postmark was dated prior to my visit to her house.
My mother frowned but remained silent. Neither of us wanted to upset Jenna any further.
Jenna's cell rang saving me from an explanation. Hard to believe her teenage boyfriend had come to my rescue. She raced upstairs to continue their conversation in private.
“I warned you investigating these murders could be dangerous.” My mother examined the base of the largest doll then set it back on the table. “Someone must be worried you're getting close to figuring out who the killer is.”
“Don't you think they would have left something more frightening than a set of dolls?” I countered. “Besides, the police are still holding Mr. Chandler in jail for the murders.” I gazed at the miniature doll with the bright red splotch. My hand shook as I placed it on the table. “So does this confirm someone else is the killer, and they don't want me nosing around?”
“I don't know.” My mother picked up the tiny doll and rolled it around in her hand. “I think Robert and I should spend the night here. What do you think?”
I'm a tough woman, I didn't need anyone to play bodyguard, did I?
My voice quivered as I bravely responded, “Sure, I'd love that.”
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* * *
THIRTY-SIX
* * * *
After weeks of holiday shopping, baking and wrapping presents, I never cease to be amazed that Christmas itself feels as if it lasts all of ten seconds. It was kind of weird having my mother and Bradford staying at the house for the three-day weekend, but the kids enjoyed all of the attention and presents. And I liked having extra elves to help with kitchen duty.
Since I had no clue what to get Bradford for Christmas, Mother had mentioned he enjoyed reading historical novels. Books n’ Bears recommended local author Naida West, and Bradford was thrilled with my gift of her Gold Country trilogy. I was thrilled no more unidentified packages arrived on my doorstep.
Before I knew it, the day after Christmas arrived. Based on the stacks of multicolored ads falling out of my daily newspaper, this day was being marketed with more fervor than the main event, the birth of Jesus.
But who was I to complain? I'd leafed through the glossy ads in the morning paper even before my first cup of coffee. With Christmas falling on a Sunday, the bank was closed on the twenty-sixth. I piled the kids in the car and spent the day dragging them from one post-Christmas sale to another.
My first bargain coup was a pair of fluffy emerald green Grinch slippers marked down to $3.99. How could I possibly pass them up? Jenna decided she could live without a matching pair of Grinch slippers. She chose a tunic top in a shade of rust that matched her hair. Ben was willing to settle for Spiderman pajamas and a chunk of discounted peppermint bark to munch on while we finished our shopping.
The three of us entered Folsom Fabulous Footwear to check out their two-for-one shoe sale. Several feet of new snow had fallen in Tahoe and I needed a new pair of boots before we drove up to the mountains for the wedding. As I rounded the corner of one of the aisles in the boot section, I ran into a dance student from the Golden Hills Studio.
“Hi, Laurel,” Paula said as she zipped up a tall black stiletto-heeled boot. “Did you have a nice Christmas?”
“It was great. Say, those are attractive,” I remarked, admiring the etched design at the top of the boot. She stood and paced up and down the aisle, her smile reversing into a frown by the time she returned to her chair.
“They look great but they don't feel great.” She slid the leather boot off and flexed her left foot in my direction. “It's difficult finding anything wide enough for my bunions. One of the hazards of ballroom dancing. They keep growing larger.”
So now I had that to look forward to. Bigger bunions. It was a good thing my career in ballroom dancing would be over in less than five days.
“Are you still performing in the Holiday Ball?” I asked.
She nodded. “Boris and I are dancing together but as soon as this competition is over, I'm switching to another studio. I don't feel safe there.”
“I saw Boris in Placerville the other day, shopping for camping gear. He said he was spending a few days at his cabin in Tahoe. He even invited me to go skiing with him.”
Paula burst out laughing at my expression, which must have reflected how thrilled I was with the studio owner's invitation.
“Boris is quite an accomplished skier. Did you know that years ago he won an Olympic medal for the winter biathlon?”
“What on earth is that? Dancing while skiing?”
<
br /> She chuckled. “Now that would be some event. No, the biathlon incorporates downhill skiing with rifle shooting.”
I shuddered. Had the studio owner invited me for a little night skiing in order to get rid of me? Permanently? Or was my imagination careening out of control?
Paula opened the lid of another box and lifted a suede boot out of the tissue. “How's the wedding dance coming? Do you need to find a place to rehearse?”
“Once Liz found out Yuri was poisoned, she decided it wasn't safe for us at the studio. Her exact words were,” I made two air quotes above my head, “'What if someone in the bridal party is poisoned? It would bloody well screw up my wedding.'”
Paula chuckled. “Sounds like the bride is focused on one thing only.”
“You've got that right. I can't wait for Brian to slide that gold band around her ring finger so they can sail off into the sunset.”
Paula lifted an inquiring brow. “Sail? This time of year?”
“Their honeymoon is a Hawaiian cruise.”
“That sounds lovely. Richard and I spent our honeymoon on a Mediterranean cruise. In fact, our anniversary is coming up next month. Five blissful years. Speaking of my husband...”
A tall, handsome silver-haired man approached. His blue eyes twinkled as he gave me a hearty handshake.
“Nice to meet you, Laurel. Will you be performing at the Holiday Ball as well?” When I shook my head, he inquired whether I was going to watch any of the events.
“Anyone can watch the competition,” Paula explained when I looked confused. “You can buy tickets to view different events. The evening performances are kind of pricey, but that's because the pros are performing. On New Year's Eve, Bobby and Tatania are dancing in the Rising Star event and Anya and Marcus will be competing against some world famous professional couples.” Paula reached into her oversized designer purse, pulled out a bright pink flyer and handed it to me.
“I much prefer watching ballroom to dancing it myself but the wedding is that evening.” I glanced at the flyer. “Hey, the competition is at the Royal Tahoe Resort. That's where Liz is getting married. In fact, I'll be driving up on the thirtieth for the rehearsal.”