Canine Christmas

by Jeffrey Marks (Ed)

  He slumped in front of me with his face less than a foot away from Mark Anthony's and mine. He hadn't been pierced with a bullet or even shot at; but I was feeling the urge to do that very thing, myself, this minute.

  “Are you out of your cotton-pickin' mind?” I asked, in greeting.

  “Best chance I've had in the past two years, and the sucker wouldn't cooperate,” he complained.

  His face was the color of chalk, his breathing was labored, and sweat on a day as cold as this one meant fear.

  “You may wish to commit suicide, but not here, and not today. Am I getting through to you?”

  “Yes'm,” he replied, trying to grin.

  He was wiping the moisture from his face with a handkerchief.

  “And furthermore,” I added icily, “I will repeat your conversation verbatim to Sheriff Scroggins. He doesn't need or deserve a loose cannon on his force.”

  “Don't,” he said, grabbing my wrist for emphasis. “She's in a wheelchair with MS. I blabbed to you because I was shook up. I should have kept quiet,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. “She needs the widow's pension and the medical coverage. Don't blow me out of the water. I don't fear dying, only that I'll bungle it, and need care myself … Please.”

  I gazed at him appalled, Red Shirt and immediate peril forgotten. I swallowed and tried to sound calm and in control.

  “Have you checked out all the other possible solutions thoroughly?”

  “As best as I can, under the circumstances.” He added dryly, “I can't come right out with it, to Social Services. The counselor would remember after the deed was done, so to speak.”

  “Let me try,” I said in earnest. “I'm in a different county and they'd never connect the two of us. I'll pretend I'm worried about a favorite uncle with similar circumstances. Give me thirty days for research to find a better solution. If I can't find one, you have my word that I'll come to your services and keep silent. But believe this: If you jump the gun before the thirty days are up, I'll be so pissed that you didn't wait for my learned advice, I'll scream your scheme from the rooftops and force them to believe me. Do we have a deal?”

  “Give up this golden opportunity?”

  He was being sarcastic and cast his eyes upward. He returned his gaze to mine in consternation.

  “Did you know that I can see two upper floors and the roof from this position? If I can see them and if he's still up there, he can see us!”

  “No shit Sherlock,” I uttered waspishly. “About the time you were making your suicidal dash I kinda got distracted. Did you happen to use your radio to call in our location to the dispatcher before taking off on the‘Death Defying Thirty'?”

  He looked embarrassed.

  “I reported shots fired, but I didn't hold down the transmitting button during the last half of me describing our present location. Sorry.”

  “And you turned off your radio?”

  I wanted to make certain before I started screaming.

  “Sergeant Lyons can't be far away and people must have heard the shot. They'll direct him. Besides, I didn't want the ambulance to get here too fast.”

  “If asked, the locals will direct him in the wrong direction. Do you see a concerned citizen? Do you hear any sirens, by chance?”

  I jerked out my radio and turned from the private channel where Jasmine could reach me and was repositioning the channel when I heard the faint wail above the wind.

  Ten seconds later, Lyons roared around the corner, screeching to a halt at an angle where he could open his passenger side door and talk without leaving the protection of the vehicle.

  “Dispatcher loused up, sent me two blocks west instead of east, or I'd been here sooner. Is he up there?”

  I carefully refrained from looking at Augustine. I was afraid I'd brain him with the radio. I put it back in my pocket, and turned to Jasmine's channel.

  “We think so unless he went out the back door,” I said.

  Lyons answered quickly.

  “There is no back door. I was in there last month with the fire inspector. Both back doors are nailed shut and boarded up. We have to go get him.”

  “What do you mean by we, paleface?” I retorted.

  I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “He's in there, and my participation in this exercise is over. Deputy Augustine isn't going anywhere. He's staying right here to protect me.”

  “You're the last one in this county that needs protection!” he yelled.

  I smiled when I heard the Cavalry arriving. Every lawenforcement car that would run was on its way. Big happening in a small town.

  Within minutes the narrow street was bumper-to-bumper with yellow and tan county vehicles, pale blue for the city police, black government units for the initials: DEA and ATF, assorted colors for personal cars of the SWAT team, and a large white boxy ambulance. The Georgia Highway Patrol colors weren't present. They must be out with their unit having coffee. There was even a green and yellow truck representing the Georgia Department of Fish and Game. If Red Shirt was still up there, he had multiple choices of targets.

  Sheriff Scroggins had duck-waddled from around his vehicle and hunched by my side.

  “I know I look damn ridiculous so quit holding back those snickers. This crouch is hard on an old fat man's knees. What happened?”

  “Sheriff, Red Shirt fired one round after Mark Anthony started baying. He panicked. You know how some men fear bloodhounds. I'd say fifty percent still warn their wives and children to stand way back, that the dog is vicious. It's erroneous knowledge. You and I know they are gentle and don't attack. Some men would rather face a machine gun than a large charging dog.”

  I continued. “I think I have a good chance to get him out of there without anyone getting hurt. Will you let me try?”

  “You want to try to talk him out?” Scroggins looked doubtful.

  “No, I want to threaten that I'll turn the dog loose in the building.”

  Scroggins laughed. “That'll be the day. He'd lick him to death.”

  I laughed with him. “We know Mark Anthony is a pussycat, but Red Shirt doesn't. Can't hurt.”

  “Go to it. My knees are killing me. Keep your head down.”

  He duckwalked back to his foam-cushioned seat in his cruiser.

  I made a hand motion for Lyons to toss me his mike.

  He glared daggers at me but threw it and flipped on the loudspeaker.

  “I'm speaking to the man in the red shirt in the boarded up building.”

  My voice boomed on the brisk breeze, vibrating in my ears.

  “This is the attack dog handler. I have been ordered to release the dog. This is your one and only chance to come out without getting mauled. If you are on an upper floor, start down immediately. You have less than five minutes to follow my instructions. At the front door toss out your weapon. Remove your shirt and jacket. Empty your pockets and turn them out so I can see the white. Walk out slowly with your hands on your head. Three steps from the door, lie down spread-eagled on the tarmac. Keep your head down and don't move a muscle. If you do everything right, you won't be hurt. I will repeat this message because of the wind.”

  I tossed the mike back to Lyons. My mouth was dry. I drank from my water bottle and offered it to Augustine. He took it and drank. I pulled back my glove and saw that time was almost up. I moved fast to keep from thinking. Did I really want to do this?

  I stood, jerked up a comfortable bloodhound from his snooze, and was striding around the barrier before anyone noticed. I began yelling at Mark Anthony.

  “Where's your man! Find your man! Find your man!”

  I held the cap down by my leg. He raised his head and started his raucous baying while he moved to the far end of his lead, straining mightily to go after his guy.

  I ignored the shouts behind me. Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't try to out-hero me by charging to the rescue. To the uninitiated, Mark Anthony would be deemed a hound from hell. His strident cry was his desire to let the world know where Re
d Shirt could be found. He was doing everything but jumping up and down and pointing at the door.

  I kept a jaundiced eye on the large metal entrance. A mantra wouldn't hurt.

  I will not be shot, he's gonna fold, I will not be shot, he's gonna fold. Amen.

  A dark gap appeared and widened teasingly slowly, and an object sailed on the breeze before landing on the pitted tarmac. It was a gun. A figure appeared in the doorway, then advanced and slowly moved forward. Stripped to the waist with pockets turned out and his hands locked on his head.

  He was saying something but the wind wasn't bringing me the message. Mark Anthony was doing his jiggle dance trying to reach him. I began to haul back on the lead when I could understand the man's message.

  “Don't turn him loose! I'm down, I'm down!”

  He was indeed down and several feet from the gun.

  Figures flew by me falling on the suspect as if each one wanted to be the one to cuff him. Someone produced leg irons. When they stood him up, I released my tight resistance on the lead and Mark Anthony surged forward to claim his victory. I let him have his moment. He deserved it. He nuzzled and licked the prisoner, whining for joy. He wanted to be hugged and petted, but the man cringed and didn't have a way to touch him nor the desire, I suspected. Mark Anthony did everything but hug him.

  Later that evening over a pepperoni and cheese pizza, wine for her and beer for me, Jasmine told me about her search.

  “Deputy Benifield had his gun drawn as he pounded on the door. I was trying to restrain Miz Melanie on a shortened lead and hold the screen door open, and she was baying her head off. Black Jacket's mother opened the door shouting and praying, and a small child started screaming at her first sight of a huge dog straining to enter. You couldn't hear yourself think. I wasn't expecting a pint of ground black pepper scattered on the front threshold. On the back sill certainly, but not the front. Miz Melanie began sneezing and baying, slipping and sliding …” She paused for another sip of wine.

  “To make a long story short, she entangled us in her lead entrapping our legs and took us all down like bowling pins with the exception of the little girl. She ran back to tell Black Jacket what was going on. He was hiding under his mama's bed doing some screaming of his own. His mama had taken his gun, put it in the oven and turned it on so he wouldn't be tempted to shoot us.

  “It took us a long time to pull Black Jacket, his sister, and Miz Melanie, out from under the bed. When the sister told Deputy Pete the gun was in a lit oven, he grabbed Bomber Jacket and his mama and I had the kid and Miz Melanie. We all ran outside and hid behind the house next door.

  “The second deputy finally arrived with the fire department. They turned off the propane gas at the tank and were waiting for the oven to cool down when we left. They said it was a miracle that the ammunition hadn't begun exploding, sending rounds and flames all over. You know what mama said when she heard him say it?”

  I gave a negative headshake.

  “I wasn't born yesterday young man. I only turned the knob to warm, not bake!”

  The day before Christmas Eve I met with Patricia Ann Newton, a recently acquired friend who had more money than Midas. That afternoon I met Deputy Donald Augustine in the city park. I explained to him that an anonymous donor had added his name to a living trust that would furnish him ample funds upon his retirement to enable him to care for his wife comfortably and would continue if he died first.

  He was embarrassed for having to use his handkerchief to wipe the pine tree pollen away that was making his eyes water. It also bothered mine as I wished him merry Christmas.

  The Village Vampire and the Yuletide Yorkie

  Dean James

  In collaboration with Jean Swanson, DEAN JAMES is the author of the Agatha Award– and Macavity Award–winning reference book, By a Woman's Hand: A Guide to Mystery Fiction by Women. With Jan Grape and Ellen Nehr, he edited the Edgar Award–nominated

  Deadly Women: The Woman Mystery Reader's Indispensable Companion. Mr. James's latest work of nonfiction is Killer Books: A Guide to the Popular World of Mystery and Suspense. His story “Best Served Cold” appeared in Canine Crimes. In addition to two cats, the author has a poodle named Candy, who anxiously awaits her appearance in a future story.

  Even the dead like Christmas.

  Though you might think it odd that a vampire like me would want to celebrate such a holiday, truth be told I'm not so far removed from my formerly human existence that I can resist the lure of tinsel and packages, stockings and strains of carols in the air. This was, moreover, my first Christmas in England, and the devout Anglophile in me reveled in the notion that I'd be spending it at a stately home, observing a traditional English Christmas firsthand. I had kept myself amused, during the drive down from Bedfordshire to Kent, with speculating on just what delightful English customs I'd witness during the coming week.

  Knocking me out of my reverie, my companion at last pulled the Land Rover to a halt in front of Wiggleton Priory and threw out her hand in a flourish. “Here we are, Simon,” she said unnecessarily. “Imagine, Christmas at one of the celebrated stately homes of England.” She smiled in delight. “I'm so thrilled that you managed to get me invited along.”

  “My dear Hilda Mae,” I responded, “I couldn't leave you to spend Christmas all by yourself in my cottage.” Because, I added silently, I certainly didn't want you snooping through my things while I was away. Hilda Mae Herlihy was nosiness personified.

  A former colleague of mine from Houston days, Hilda Mae had been in England on sabbatical since the beginning of the fall semester. I had been rather surprised to hear her voice on the phone just before Thanksgiving. “Glad I tracked you down, Sammy boy,” her voice trilled over the wires.

  I winced at the relic of my former—and human— existence. “Simon, if you please, my dear Hilda Mae,” I said in my most prim tone.

  She giggled. “Whatever! Though I can't imagine what you're trying to live down. Unless it's man trouble, as usual.”

  “Your point in calling?” I prodded her, none too gently.

  “Why, to say a big ol' howdy! What'd you think?” She giggled into the phone again, reminding me why small doses of her girlish charm usually sufficed. The woman had a first-class mind and was a linguist of no mean ability, but she had the appearance and the manner of a runway bimbo.

  “Well, howdy back at you!” I sighed and settled down for a long one. Conversations with Hilda Mae were never short.

  Somehow, during the ensuing hour, I had persuaded myself that I couldn't let poor Hilda Mae spend Christmas in England by herself. Or maybe I didn't want to be alone myself at that time of year. For whatever reason, I heard myself inviting her to spend a week at Christmas at my cottage in the quiet Bedfordshire village of Snupperton Mumsley.

  A week later I received an answer to a letter I had posted two months earlier. The letter was postmarked somewhere in Zimbabwe, which might explain the delay in response time. From the expensive, beautifully engraved paper and nearly illegible crabbed handwriting, I learned that Lady Antonia Pinchley-Fyggis would be delighted to let me examine her family's copy of a medieval chronicle I had been hoping to consult. Moreover, I would be more than welcome to come the week of Christmas, when Lady Antonia would again be in residence at Wiggleton Priory.

  Lady Antonia graciously assented to the inclusion of Hilda Mae in her invitation, once I had carefully explained that Hilda Mae was also a scholar of some repute and would be of great assistance to me. I was a bit surprised, frankly, that Lady Antonia, daughter of the seventeenth earl of Wiggleton, had been so willing to open her home to strangers at this time of year. Far be it from me to look a gift aristocrat in the mouth, however.

  From the Land Rover, I stared up at the impressive facade of Wiggleton Priory. Once the site of a Benedictine nunnery, the priory had been transformed, thanks to the Dissolution and countless pounds of Pinchley-Fyggis money over the ensuing centuries, into a vast pile of a stately home of no discernible, si
ngle architectural style. How anyone—besides Bill Gates, that is—could possibly maintain a house this large in this day and age astonished me.

  Hilda Mae had already hopped out of the car, and I followed her up the steps to the front door, where she rang the bell. Scant moments later, the huge door opened, and the butler cast an inquiring gaze over us. “Dr. Simon Kirby-Jones and Dr. Hilda Mae Herlihy to see Lady Antonia Pinchley-Fyggis,” she announced in her breezy fashion, stepping forward over the threshold and forcing the butler to step backward. The cavernous hall inside was, if anything, several degrees colder than the winter chill outside.

  “This way, please, madam, sir,” the butler intoned, after introducing himself as Foxwell. He moved surprisingly well for someone who looked ready to totter into the grave at any moment.

  We followed him down an overly ornate hallway to a large door on the south side of the house. From what I could see, there was no attempt to decorate for the holidays. No swathes of greenery, no bright bunting, nothing even faintly reminiscent of the season. Rather disappointed, I tramped on behind Foxwell and Hilda Mae.

  Sweeping open the door, the butler marched through, announcing us as he went. Hilda Mae paused to hand the keys to the car to him, and I continued forward to present myself to our hostess.

  Ensconced in a large armchair before a crackling fire sat a broomstick with pouting red lips and a fright wig. I blinked. The broomstick changed into an excessively thin old woman with skin the texture of dry leather, wearing makeup and hair appropriate to a woman less than half her age. Not to mention one used to earning her living on her back. How frail she appeared. Impossible to tell her age—she might be anywhere from sixty to ninety. I leaned forward to offer her my hand, sensed a blur of movement, and snatched it back just in time.

  Normally, dogs are afraid of vampires. Few of them would dare try to bite me. But there are exceptions, like the pugnacious little Yorkie now standing to attention in Lady Antonia's lap.