by Mary Daheim
Paula's shoulders slumped, and somehow the silver threads in the caftan seemed to turn a dull gray. “We were friends. We had so much in common.” She paused, then stood up. “I think we need another drink.”
I started to protest but this was no time for side arguments. I remained in the chair as Paula went behind the counter bar.
“You told me about Tom,” she continued, getting more eggs and milk out of the refrigerator, “and how you had Adam even though his father wouldn't marry you. At first, I felt you'd been a fool. Then I met Adam. He's a wonderful young man. And I thought—not for the first time, but with an altered perception—of what would have happened if I hadn't had those abortions. I began to envy you, resent you, even hate you. Unfortunately, all these things overwhelmed me about the same time I met Crystal.” Paula stopped speaking as she emptied the rum bottle into the mixture, then reached under the counter, presumably for the nutmeg.
“It was bad enough discovering that she'd had an affair with Victor in Portland,” Paula said, her voice gone dull, though her hands were busily mixing the eggnog. “It was even worse when I learned she'd sworn off men and was attracted to women. It wasn't a real revelation for her. She'd always known, but had been in denial. Then she came out of the closet when she moved back here. I not only admired her courage, her causes, her ruthless determination, but I had other, physical feelings for her. She rebuffed me. I couldn't stand any more rejection, especially from my own sex. I guess I snapped.” Paula gave me a strange, sad look. “I set you up because before there was Crystal, there was you. I fell for you from the start, even though I knew it was hopeless.”
The shock sobered me as if someone had poured ice-cold water over my head. “Oh, Paula,” I gasped, “I'm so sorry!”
“Then let's drink to us,” she said, with a melancholy little smile. “To what might have been.”
I suddenly realized that Paula had stirred the eggnog after putting in the nutmeg. But the nutmeg went on top, as a garnish. She had added something else to the mixture. I still had my mug. Involuntarily, I covered it with my hand.
“No more for me, Paula,” I said, my voice sounding unnatural. “I really should …”
Paula drained her mug in four big gulps. “This batch wasn't for you.” She staggered a bit against the counter, the mug falling from her hand. “I thought about it, but I couldn't.” She lurched between the counter and the refrigerator. “Sorry, Emma,” she muttered, and fell to the floor.
Rheims and Rouen raced to Paula's lifeless body. The stained-glass windows seemed to weep.
That damned Milo had been listening outside for the past ten minutes. I could have killed him.
“Hey,” he said, after Paula had been taken away in an ambulance that was in no hurry to reach its destination, “when do I get to hear a confession like that? I mean, with women being a triangle? It was kind of hot.”
Men. “What were you doing out there in the snow?” I snapped. “Jacking off?”
“Emma!” The sheriff looked shocked. We were in his office, where I'd gone to give my statement.
“You might have stopped her,” I retorted, firmly closing the pet carrier where Rheims and Rouen were complaining about their transport. “You might have saved her life.”
“That's dubious,” Milo said, though he looked a bit shaken. “She didn't want her life saved. That's why she drank the poisoned eggnog.”
I leaned back in the visitor's chair, and tried to ignore the smell of stale cigarettes, which about now tickled my nostrils like some Babylonian elixir. “It's my fault,” I said in a tired voice. “This has been one hell of a December. Now I've not only lost a friend, I've caused her death. What a miserable Advent.”
Milo frowned. “Sometime you'll have to explain this Advent deal to me. I don't think Congregationalists had that when I was going to Sunday school.”
“Maybe not.” I reached out a hand. “Give me a cigarette or I'll have to hurt you.”
“I thought you already did.” The words had slipped out of Milo's mouth, and I could tell by the look on his face that he regretted them.
“God, Milo, I thought we were past that. I really did.” It didn't work that way, of course. What was the difference between my dumping of Milo and my correctly perceived rejection of Paula? Neither of them had been able to revert to a real friendship.
The sheriff leaned across the desk to light my cigarette. “I thought I was pretty much over it until Cavanaugh showed up.”
“You think that didn't have an effect on me?” I shot back.
“A good one, though,” Milo said.
“That's debatable.”
“Huh?”
I heaved a heavy sigh. “Let's say it was fun while it lasted.” Then I explained about Tom and Kelsey and my mixed feelings toward the man I was beginning to call The Phantom.
“That's weird,” Milo said when I'd finished.
I shook my head.“It's not at all weird. It's Tom. He needs to be needed, and always by someone who is weaker, more troubled, and beset with problems he thinks he can solve. I don't qualify. I'm too damned normal.”
“That's weird,” Milo repeated.
I gave up trying to explain and started to stand up, then stopped. “Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”
Milo's long jaw dropped. “Are you kidding?”
“No. I need a friend. I need a lover. I need a man. You're it, cowboy.”
But the sheriff hesitated. “Are you still drunk? You seemed to be able to drive Ed's car okay.”
“I'm completely sober. Come on, Dodge, give me the courtesy of a prompt reply.”
Typically, Milo needed to mull. Then he shook his head. “I don't think so, Emma. Sorry.”
I gaped at him. “You're turning me down?”
He gave a nod. “It wouldn't be right. It isn't your style. It's not mine, either.”
Milo was right, of course. I avoided his gaze, then stood up. “I guess it was a bad idea. Blame it on Crystal Bird. She's cost me plenty in the last week or two.”
“No problem,” Milo said, also getting to his feet.
I glanced down at the pet carrier and gave the sheriff a wry little smile. “After all, I have the cats.”
But I still didn't have a car, which dawned on me once more as I left Milo's office. It was after ten, it was snowing, and I wondered if Ed would mind if I kept the Beamer until morning.
I decided he wouldn't. Ed would have to drive me home after I delivered his car. Knowing how lazy he was, and genuinely concerned about disturbing his comfort so late at night, I drove the BMW to my log house.
Again, someone was waiting for me. This time, however, I readily identified my visitor. Vida was sitting in her Buick, which was parked by my mailbox.
“Good grief,” she cried as she got out of her car, “is that one of Ed's collection?”
“I borrowed it,” I called back.
Vida trudged up to the front porch. “Why does he keep buying German cars? Why can't he get himself a big Cadillac if he wants to show off?”
“Ed thought he was buying an English automobile when he got that one,” I said, nodding at the Beamer. “He was sure that BMW stood for British Majesty Wheels.”
“He's almost as demented as you are,” Vida retorted as I let us into the house. “Now you tell me how you deduced that Paula was the killer and why you didn't let me know what you were up to. And yes, I would definitely enjoy a cup of hot tea. I've been waiting twenty minutes in front of your house. I'd no idea you'd take so long at the sheriff's. Not to mention that that wretched nephew of mine didn't call me until almost ten to let me know what had happened.”
Poor Billy. He was definitely getting coal in his Christmas stocking this year. “Come into the kitchen,” I said, after putting our coats in the closet. “I'll tell you all about it.”
“Start with why you didn't tell me in the first place,” Vida demanded, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table.
I glanced over my shoulder as I turned
the heat on under the teakettle. “I thought I might be wrong. I hoped that I was wrong. It was all sort of intuitive. When Tom left me that note today, I raved and ranted about giving up on men,” I continued, joining Vida at the table. “Then I had a sudden thought. Some women do give up. Most of them simply go on with their lives, get a hobby, volunteer, whatever. But occasionally, a rejected woman will form an attachment with another woman. I'd remembered that when I first met Paula, she'd given me a brief rundown on her previous lovers. One of them was a tuba player. I guessed that Victor was that long-lost love. He'd come to see Crystal, not Paula. I gathered that Victor and Crystal had also been lovers, apparently while she was still in Portland. Everything began to fall into place.”
I stopped as the teakettle whistled. “Somewhere in the early stages of the investigation, I mentioned that Paula, among others, had had the opportunity to swipe my sleeping pills. But I dismissed the idea, because I couldn't see a motive then, I couldn't imagine her trying to frame me, and most of all, I didn't want her to be the guilty party. She was my friend.”
Vida harrumphed. “Some friend. Didn't I always tell you I didn't think much of Paula Rubens?”
I bit my tongue. Had Paula been a saint with a heavenly crown, Vida still wouldn't have warmed to her. Thus, I would never tell Vida that Paula had been attracted to me. Her reaction would be extreme, and very negative.
“So Paula was secretly in love with you?” Vida said as I handed her a mug of tea.
I slumped into my chair. “How'd you guess?”
“I'm just putting it all together,” she said in an amazingly matter-of-fact voice. “Why else would Paula try to set you up as the killer? Goodness, it's a wonder she wasn't after Marisa Foxx, too. But then we don't know about Marisa, do we?”
I had to admit that the thought had crossed my mind. Maybe Crystal had been attracted to Marisa. Maybe Marisa had rejected her. Hell, for all I knew, Marisa was in love with Milo. I've learned not to make hasty judgments about people, having been wrong so often.
“Anyway,” I went on, “here's how I figured it. Paula showed up at Crystal's around seven. She helped Crystal make the rum punch. That's when she slipped my sleeping pills into the mix. She came back later, to make sure Crystal was dead. As an afterthought, she slashed Crystal's wrists with a razor she'd found in her own house when she first moved in. She admitted that, and I realized that Victor had said nothing about seeing Crystal's wrists cut. Also, Paula had to remove the love letters she'd written to Crystal. She took a chance, but figured that no one would show up so late, unless it was Aaron, and he'd be stoned anyway.”
Vida was silent for a few moments. “I can't believe Paula actually confessed.”
“She was drunk,” I said, but was unwilling to admit that I was, too.
“Still…” Vida drew circles on my vinyl table covering. “I suppose it was rather brave of her. To be so honest, I mean. Though suicide is a cowardly act.”
“Paula couldn't face the humiliation, not to mention the ultimate rejection by the people, which translates as the law,” I said. “But she did have courage. It's one of the things I admired about her. She and Crystal had that much in common.”
“My, my.” Vida looked unusually thoughtful. “Love is strange, isn't it?”
“It crosses all boundaries,” I said, “and makes human beings do foolish things, regardless of race, religion, or sexual preference. We all operate from the same well-spring of human emotions. The heart is a very delicate thing.”
“Perhaps it does rule us,” Vida murmured. “After Ernest died, I used to think my head ruled me. But…” Her voice trailed off.
My eyes widened as I leaned across the table. “Vida, are you and Buck… serious?”
Vida reeled in the chair. “Goodness! You smell like a distillery! Have you been drinking, too?”
“A little,” I admitted. “Now tell me about—”
“There's nothing to tell. Yet.” She gave me her owlish expression.
I assumed that if Vida and Buck Bardeen, her companion of the past few years, had an announcement to make, I'd be the first to know. Thus, I let the subject drop.
“So Nat and Aaron and even Dean Ramsey and the Eriks clan were not involved,” she mused. “I wonder what Aaron will do now.”
“My guess is that he'll sell the cabin,” I said, pouring more tea. “The real-estate market's good right now, and it'd still make an excellent summer or winter vacation home.”
“Yes,” Vida agreed. “Though it would be nice to think that Aaron wouldn't fritter away the money on drugs and such.”
“Who knows?” I replied. “Aaron needs to get his head straightened out. Having his estranged wife get murdered might have done that, but so far, I don't see any signs of it happening.”
“Was it Paula who was at the cabin this morning?” Vida asked, adding ample amounts of sugar and milk to her tea.
“I don't think so,” I said. “She seemed genuinely surprised when I mentioned that Aaron had called the sheriff.”
“Hmm.” Again, Vida grew silent. “I wonder.”
“What?”
She gave herself a shake. “Nothing. It's late, I'm rather tired, and my mind is wandering.”
“Mine wandered in the right direction, for once,” I said. “Looking back, there were so many hints about Crystal's state of mind, and Paula's, too. When I went to the glass exhibit at the college, Paula had a piece—a wonderful, luminous glass panel—that depicted Hera, queen of the Greek gods and goddesses. If I remember correctly from my college mythology class, Hera was famous for being jealous. She held a grudge and could be cruelly vindictive. In some vague way, I wondered why Paula was drawn to the subject. Now I think I know.”
“Stained glass,” Vida remarked. “Whatever is the point, except in churches? You can't really see through it, so why bother?”
I ignored the comment, and continued. “Then there were the men in Crystal's life. They spoke of her as if she'd cut them off in more ways than one. She hadn't bothered to divorce Aaron. I considered the friendship between Crystal and Paula as odd, it struck a false note.” After the funeral, it wasn't Victor whom Aaron was yelling at—it was Paula, who was next to him. In some weird way, Aaron may have blamed Paula for Crystal's anti-man stance. I grimaced. “I feel really awful about Paula. I liked her a lot. Maybe I've regained my reputation, but I've lost a friend.”
Vida had finished her tea and was standing up. She patted my shoulder.” You still have me. “She gave me another pat. “And I don't find you the least bit attractive.”
That weekend, the fourth and last Sunday in Advent, Ben called to say that he and Adam wouldn't arrive until Christmas Eve day. It seemed that my brother had talked to Tom, who had had to revise his schedule because of Kelsey's near miscarriage. He couldn't get together with Ben and Adam until the twenty-third.
I had cussed and ranted when Ben relayed the news. “Though hundreds of miles away,” I raged, “Tom has still managed to screw up my holidays. This is about the worst Advent ever.”
“Hey,” my brother said, “at least you give a damn about the reason for the season. Hang in there, Adam and I are bringing a boxload of cheap gifts and some of the best tequila you ever poured down your throat through a funnel.”
“I hate tequila,” I retorted, then wished I'd kept my mouth shut. “Okay, okay,” I grumbled, “but you know you'll get to Alpine really late. Your flight will be delayed in San Francisco, the airport will be jammed in Seattle, you'll have to wait forever to get a rental car, and then we'll have another blizzard up here and they'll close Highway 2.”
“Sounds like fun,” Ben said in his most aggravatingly cheerful voice. “Got to go. It's seventy-eight degrees in Tuba City, and time for my dip in the pool.”
There was no pool at Ben's rectory, but I didn't doubt that it was seventy-eight degrees. I would have hated that. Heat and sun aren't my style, especially at Christmas.
Which reminded me, I was once again behind in putting
up my Advent figures. I took the last two Wise Men out of the carton in the closet and set them up on the mantel. Then I tried to pray, but my thoughts kept straying to Paula. I prayed for her, for Crystal, too, but my heart was still heavy, my soul a wasteland.
I was right about my brother and son's trip from San Francisco. Adam called three times on the twenty-fourth, first to say that they were fogged in. Then he phoned from Sea-Tac, telling me that the baggage machinery had malfunctioned and they'd be late leaving the airport. The third and last call had come from Monroe at seven P.M. Ben and Adam were starving, so they'd stopped for something to eat. They hoped to arrive by nine. Naturally, around eight o'clock, it started to snow.
Half an hour later I was covering the potato-roll dough, made from a recipe that had been passed down through four generations of Alpiners by the Clemans family. As I placed the bowl in the refrigerator, I heard someone at the door. Through the peephole, I could see a woman I didn't recognize. She had something in her arms.
Cautiously, I opened the door. “Yes?”
A girl in her twenties stood on the porch with a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. Her face, which was red from the cold, looked pinched, and snow-covered wisps of blonde hair stuck out through the crocheted scarf she had tied around her head.
“Are you Ms. Lord?” she asked in a hoarse voice.
“Yes,” I said. “I'm Emma Lord.”
“Could I come in, just for a minute?” She was shivering, and held the baby so close to her chest that I was afraid she might smother it.
“Sure,” I said, stepping aside. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”
“I didn't give it,” she replied, breathing heavily and examining the baby. “Poor Danny. He keeps throwing off his little mittens.”
“Sit down. Please.” I ushered her and the baby to the sofa. Concern as well as a sense of wariness overcame me. Was this some kind of scam? While pitiful mother and tiny child distract homeowner, male accomplice steals everything not bolted down. I could see the headlines in next week's Advocate. “Now tell me your name,” I said, sounding rather stern.