Secret Santa Murder

by Karin Kaufman

  “We were knitting at Irene’s house, so they all heard her call me a pig. Hazel even agreed with her, and only Irene defended me. So it could have been Joan or one of the others. Anyone but Irene.” Puckering her lips and shaking her head, she said, “I don’t like suspecting them of something so horrible. Murder, I mean, not calling me a pig. They were Phyllis’s friends too.”

  “Has Detective Rancourt talked to you since Phyllis died?” I asked, getting up to check on the lasagna.

  “He called me and said he’d stop by tomorrow morning. I told him that was fine, I’m not going anywhere.”

  The end piece of the lasagna was piping hot, so I plated it, grabbed some silverware, and left the rest of the lasagna to cool on the counter for a quick reheat tomorrow or later that night.

  Norma ate the first few bites enthusiastically, the plate propped on a second lap pillow, but soon she slowed down, picking listlessly at the beef and cheese filling. I brought her a glass of orange juice and asked if she needed her medication, but she told me she was an hour away from the next pill. All because of some dastardly ball bearings.

  “How do you think one of the ladies dropped the bearings in your kitchen without you noticing?” I asked her.

  “Easy peasy. They were in a coat pocket, I think, and someone dumped them before leaving. We all grabbed our coats, scarves, our needles and projects—who would see? I was saying goodbye to everyone by the front door. Carla left her gloves on the table and went back, Irene left her tea Thermos on that rolling butcher block I use as an island and went back to get that. We’re all like that, you know. ‘Oh wait, I left my scarf on the couch’—that kind of thing. Who really pays attention? And you’ve seen the tiles in there—you wouldn’t spot silver-colored bearings right away.”

  “Irene said you fell in the night.”

  “I couldn’t sleep and got up to search the refrigerator,” she said ruefully. “You see, after they left, I came in here by the tree and watched television, so I didn’t see the bearings that evening, only when I fell.”

  “How many were on the floor?”

  “Irene found three. Just three, but that was enough.”

  “Who do you suspect? Both the ball bearings and the murder. Be brutally honest.”

  After pondering the question a minute, Norma said, “Number one, not Irene. Let’s get that very clear. She puts her foot in her mouth, as she’d be the first to admit, but she’s no murderer. Number two, Joan and Hazel have never like me as much as the others. But that’s me. I believe they liked Phyllis. So number three, the question is, who among us wanted to hurt me and kill Phyllis? I don’t know, Kate. I simply don’t know. But please find out before someone else is hurt—or worse.”

  “I’ll do my best. I’m going to the charity fair tomorrow, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “You’re good at this. You really are.” She laid her fork across the plate. “My dear, thank you so much, but I’m bushed.”

  I stood and took her plate, setting it on the table next to her chair in case she wanted a bite as the evening went on. “I’m off now. Would you like me to call Irene?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just tired. I suppose we’ll know who the killer is when the rest of us die under suspicious circumstances. Process of elimination.”

  “We can’t let that happen. I’ll just have to smoke her out before she acts again, won’t I?” It was a somewhat arrogant statement on my part, but seeing how Norma was suffering, and knowing how defenseless she must have felt, living alone and being hampered now by a broken wrist, I was filled with resolve. I would find this murdering, ball-bearing-dropping lunatic of a woman.

  “I hope so, dear. Irene is my oldest and closest friend, and I’d rather she wasn’t the next victim.”

  CHAPTER 6

  After a fitful night’s sleep, I woke up late the next morning and fixed a quick breakfast. Emily and I had talked on the phone after I’d returned from Norma’s house, and she’d asked to go with me to the Smithwell Charity Fair this morning. Demanded, rather—as soon as I’d told her about Norma’s accident, Phyllis Bigelow’s death, and the mysterious Secret Santa ornaments.

  News of Phyllis’s death had come too late for the morning paper, so when Emily arrived, I ushered her into my kitchen and gave her as many details as I could recall. “The smear on the window haunts me,” I said. “I think she was eating a cookie or something like that, and maybe spilled a little tea, and when she realized she was in trouble, she clawed at the window for help from her neighbors. Irene said some of them like to be nosy.”

  “The tea leaves on her counter and the red bag in her trash are telling,” Emily said, pouring hot water from the kettle over her tea ball. “And good morning, Minette. I didn’t mean to ignore you over there on the hutch.”

  “Good morning, Emily,” Minette replied, her wings nodding in unison with her head as she sat on the edge of her shelf.

  “We’re on another case, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, and I’m glad you’re here. Kate said she would take me in her pocket.”

  “Even in my pocket you can hear things Emily and I can’t,” I said.

  Minette giggled. “A fairy’s hearing is—”

  “—extraordinary,” I finished. “You move with the speed of a jet airplane and hear better than three people put together. Finish your toast and syrup. The fair opens in ten minutes, and I think we should be there when it does.”

  Emily quickly finished her tea, and I put my plate and cup in the sink, got my coat on, and grabbed my car keys.

  I backed my Jeep slowly down to the turnaround, trying not to skid on the thin layer of snow. Fortunately for my nerves, Birch Street was wet, not icy, and I made the drive to the community center downtown without incident.

  “Did you know there’s no such thing as pixies?” I asked Emily, searching for a space in the center’s parking lot.

  “I hadn’t thought of it,” Emily replied.

  “Minette says so. Right, Minette?”

  “Yes, Kate,” came the voice from my pocket.

  “Does it bother you?” Emily asked. “It seems to bother you.”

  “Minette says fairies stand alone.” I shrugged. “It does bother me a little, but I’m not sure why.”

  “There’s a spot,” Emily said, pointing.

  I parked and shut off the engine. “Before we get out, I should call Rancourt. He’ll know by now if Phyllis was murdered.”

  “Let me,” Emily said, taking out her phone. “I knew Phyllis—barely, but I won’t say that. Anyway, Rancourt knows me now.”

  She dialed, waited, and told someone at the station she needed to talk to the detective. To our surprise, he was in this Saturday morning and he took her call.

  “Detective, I’m a friend of Phyllis Bigelow,” Emily began. “I need to know what happened to her. I’m sure you understand. I can’t sleep, just thinking about what might have happened to her. I have to know. Oh, thank you.” She glanced at me, and I rolled my eyes.

  Emily was silent for a minute, save for a few sighs, then she said a final thank-you before hanging up.

  “Her case is officially a homicide,” she said. “He wouldn’t tell me what her cause of death was, but he said that would be released later today.”

  “I’ll bet you she was poisoned, and the poison was in her tea.”

  “That would explain the tea leaves on the counter and the dripped tea. I wonder if she got sick before she could clean things up.”

  “Except Norma’s teacup was on an end table, and that would have the poison in it. If that was Norma’s cup. Maybe the killer switched out cups before leaving.”

  Minette squirmed inside my pocket. “Get out of the car now. Let me listen to people talk.”

  “We’re here to observe, ask questions, and gather information,” I said, sliding down from my seat.

  “And check out the knitting,” Emily added. “You can tell a lot about a person by what she knits.”

  As it turned out,
the Christmas Charity Fair was a much bigger deal this year than last, and the community center’s auditorium was packed to the gills with sales tables. Baked goods, handmade crafts of all kinds, knit goods, quilts—on and on it went. Emily and I wormed our way through the crowd and finally found the Merry Knitters’ table.

  Except for poor Norma, all the knitters were in attendance. Irene, who had been looking a little glum, brightened when she saw us, and before we reached her, she stepped around the table and pulled us aside.

  “You talked to Norma last night,” she said in a rather loud whisper. “Good, good.” She was wearing her glasses today, and as she nodded her approval, the beaded chain she used to sling them like a necklace around her neck shook like a horse’s reins.

  “We just found out that Phyllis’s death is a homicide,” I said.

  Irene straightened. “Of course it is. I didn’t think anything different. The police are maddeningly slow.”

  “They have to take some things slowly,” I said, defending Rancourt. I knew him to be a good and trustworthy cop.

  “Well, we don’t,” Irene said. “I’m not biding my time, waiting for someone to strangle me in the night.”

  “The killer is one of your knitting friends,” I reminded her. “They can’t strangle you in the night—they’re not capable. You’re stronger than they are. It’ll be poison—like in those cookies you’re all eating.”

  Irene looked back to the table, to her friends merrily sharing and scarfing Christmas cookies from a plate in the middle of the table. “Good grief.”

  “Exactly.”

  When I turned toward the table, Joan waved at me. I smiled. Good heavens, one of these sweet, knitting old ladies was a stone-cold killer.

  “Here’s something that’s been bothering me,” I said, looking back at Irene. “Why would the killer trip Norma on ball bearings but efficiently kill Phyllis with poison? Ball bearings on a kitchen floor is not an efficient means of murder.”

  “I’ve been so relieved she wasn’t more seriously hurt that . . . yes, it’s strange. Unless it was a crime of opportunity and not meant to be perfect.”

  “A crime of opportunity using ball bearings?”

  Irene waved a hand. “That’s what we’re here to figure out. You two, off you go. Kate, we’ll meet at your house after the fair. No, earlier. I’ll leave at two o’clock.”

  I sensed that was an order. “Emily and I will be there.”

  Irene went back to her seat at the table, and Emily, who had been eyeing a lovely green scarf, latched on to it, searching for a price tag. She found the tag just as I walked up to her. I heard a small gasp.

  “It’s baby alpaca,” Joan said. “The finest, softest material in the world.”

  “Except for cashmere,” Hazel said.

  “No, no, Hazel, there’s no comparison. Feel it.” Joan took hold of one end and wiggled it.

  “I’ve felt alpaca before, Joan.”

  “Baby alpaca. The finest.”

  I touched the scarf. “Wow.”

  Joan beamed. I appreciated baby alpaca.

  “This color . . .” I began. “I’ve seen it at Norma’s.” That was a lie, but I needed to know if this was the same green alpaca that had caused Joan to call Norma a pig.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t see great big mounds of it. She bought it all up, you know. Leaving none for the rest of us.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

  Joan puffed out her cheeks, letting me know how wrong I was.

  “You’re all friends. I don’t understand the anger.”

  Hazel leaned my way. “Don’t you and your friends get into arguments?”

  Time to be blunt. “My friends would never send me an ornament like the one Norma got. Or a potato like Birdie got,” I added, raising my voice.

  Birdie, who was sitting next to Irene, perked up.

  “It was clearly meant to disturb her,” Emily said, dropping the green scarf.

  “Who are you, anyway?” Hazel asked.

  “I’m Kate’s friend,” she replied. “I love these scarfs. They’re so beautiful and expertly made. And I hear you give them to the underprivileged if they don’t sell here?”

  Hazel smiled sweetly, regaining her manners. Emily was a smooth operator.

  “That’s the purpose of our group,” Carla said. She’d been watching Emily, not altogether favorably, but on hearing my friend’s compliments, she’d had a change of heart. “It’s nice to meet you, Emily. If the alpaca is a little pricey, you might be interested in wool or cotton. It’s all for charity, you know. It softens the blow if you think of it that way.”

  “Greetings, ladies!”

  Carla’s attention snapped from Emily to an elderly man walking by the table. He tipped his tweed cap at the knitting club. “You’re all looking lovely today.”

  Irene and the others smiled back, but Carla positively cooed. “Frederick, hello there! You’re looking chipper yourself.”

  She girlishly palmed her blonde-gray bangs from her eyes, and it struck me then that she had probably spent most of her life fielding appreciative remarks and stares from men. Time had altered her beauty, but the mannerisms had remained, so that even an ordinary hello brought out the schoolgirl in her.

  Irene could barely hide her disdain. “He said hello, Carla.”

  “I’m not deaf.”

  “Yes, but you are . . .” Irene’s words faded into an incomprehensible mumble.

  “What? What am I? Speak up.”

  “Stop it,” Birdie said. “Every last one of you can be horrid, not just the woman who gave me a potato. We’re supposed to be friends, and this is a charity fair.”

  Irene put a hand on Birdie’s arm. “You’re right. It’s just the tension.”

  “You keep saying that same thing,” Hazel said. “What’s the difference between today and any other day for you, Irene?”

  Joan chimed in with a “Here, here.”

  “Explain yourself,” Irene said.

  “Don’t order me,” Hazel shot back. “I’m not Norma.”

  “I’ve been thinking it over,” Irene said, crossing her arms over her chest, “and I believe I know what the schoolhouse and chicken ornaments mean. Would anyone like to hear?”

  “Irene, later,” I said.

  Emily circled behind me, whispering, “I see our future, and it’s sitting at that table.”

  “Why later?” Irene asked.

  “Just because,” I said. “All right? Please. Joan, did you visit Norma last night?”

  “Yes, I said I would, and I did.”

  “Thank you. She looked like she needed help. She’s tired, and she’s still in pain.”

  “I fixed her breakfast this morning,” Irene said. “She was doing a little better.”

  “I’m bringing her dinner after the fair,” Hazel added.

  “And I’m checking in on her tonight,” Carla said.

  “You’re all good friends,” I said. “She couldn’t get through this without you.”

  There they were. Five smiling friends—well, maybe four since Birdie had a hard time getting around—all pitching in to help Norma. But I couldn’t ignore the brutal fact that one of them had harbored years of resentment toward Phyllis and possibly toward all the other ladies in the knitting circle.

  “We’re all good friends,” Hazel said somberly. “Except for one of us, Kate. We can’t ignore that.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “I know, I know,” Irene said. “I’m very aware, Kate, though I realize I don’t sound like I am. I hear myself, and I swear up and down, I can’t stop.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head, disappointed in the childish version of herself that from time to time burst forth unchecked.

  “We all say things we regret,” I said.

  “But I make a habit of inserting my foot into my mouth. Jack—that’s my husband, Emily—used to tell me that. The difficulty is, it seems so right as I’m doing it. It’s only later I know what a fool I’ve b
een. I’m glad you stopped me from telling everyone my thoughts on those two ornaments.”

  “I’m going to get the tea started. You two stay here,” I instructed, heading into the kitchen. Emily knew Minette needed to free herself from my coat pocket, so I trusted her to keep Irene occupied and in the living room while I let her fly free. Her usual escape route, up the fireplace flue, wasn’t practical, what with Irene feet away on a couch, so Minette would have to keep still in her teacup in the hutch.

  But that was easier said than done. Fifty-seven she may have been—what was that in human years?—but she was a twitching, flitting fireball of energy who slept only a few hours a night and buzzed about the rest of the time.

  I put away the box of cookies I’d bought at the fair, got the kettle going, took three teacups from the hutch—all of which Irene would consider a fanciful waste of money—and went back to the living room.

  “I’m dying to know.” I angled an armchair toward the couch and sat. “What’s the significance of the schoolhouse and chicken ornaments?”

  “Keep in mind I’m looking at this from the perspective of the murderer,” Irene began.

  “Understood.”

  “First, the chicken. Hazel’s husband was a firefighter. Patrick was his name, and he died eight years ago, not long before my Jack. There was an incident twenty-two or maybe twenty-three years ago, while he was still on the job. Joan’s neighbor—”

  “Joan Simms?” I asked.

  “Yes. I knew Joan long before the Merry Knitters got together. So Joan had a neighbor who was partially disabled, name of Evelyn. And one day Evelyn’s house caught fire. I don’t mean a little kitchen fire, either. It was a conflagration that destroyed her house. Evelyn was the only one at home, so her family was spared, but sadly, her dog died.”

  Irene pursed her lips and paused, as if I needed time for that to sink in.

  “Evelyn begged Patrick to run inside and save her dog,” she went on, “and when he wouldn’t, Joan tried to go inside. He stopped her and threatened to have her arrested if she didn’t move back. I wasn’t there, but word was, he could have saved the dog but he was afraid to go inside the house. Afterward, he was soundly chastised in the papers. People said he was a coward—a chicken—and shouldn’t wear the uniform.”