X is for Xmas

by Carla Coupe

  “The second toast,” said he, taking Mr Wray’s hand, and looking at the mask, which hung opposite, prettily decorated with holly,—“the second toast, is a wide circulation and a hearty welcome all through England, for the Mask of Shakespeare!” This was duly honoured; and immediately Mr Colebatch went on like lightning to the third toast.

  “The third,” said he, “is the speech toast.” Here he endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to cough up his voice out of the plum pudding. “I say, ladies and gentlemen, this is the speech toast.” He stopped again, and desired the carpenter to pour him out a small glass of brandy; having swallowed which, he went on fluently.

  “Mr Wray, sir,” pursued the old gentleman, “I address you in particular, because you are particularly concerned in what I am going to say. Three days ago, I had a little talk in private with those two young people. Young people, sir, are never wholly free from some imprudent tendencies; and falling in love’s one of them.” (At this point, Annie slunk behind her grandfather; the carpenter, having nobody to slink behind, put himself quite at his ease, by knocking down an orange.) “Now, sir,” continued the Squire, “the private talk that I was speaking of, leads me to suppose that those two particular young people mean to marry each other. You, I understand, objected at first to their engagement; and like good and obedient children, they respected your objection. I think it’s time to reward them for that, now. Let them marry, if they will, sir, while you can live happily to see it! I say nothing about our little darling there, but this:—the vital question for her, and for all girls, is not how high, but how good, she, and they, marry. And I must confess, I don’t think she’s altogether chosen so badly.” (The Squire hesitated a moment. He had in his mind, what he could not venture to speak—that the carpenter had saved old Reuben’s life when the burglars were in the house; and that he had shown himself well worthy of Annie’s confidence, when she asked him to accompany her, in going to recover the mould from Stratford.) “In short, sir,” Mr Colebatch resumed, “to cut short this speechifying, I don’t think you can object to let them marry, provided they can find means of support. This, I think, they can do. First there are the profits sure to come from the mask, which you are sure to share with them, I know.” (This prophecy about the profits was fulfilled: fifty copies of the cast were ordered by the new year; and they sold better still, after that.) “This will do to begin on, I think, Mr Wray. Next, I intend to get our friend there a good berth as master-carpenter for the new crescent they’re going to build on my land, at the top of the hill—and that won’t be a bad thing, I can tell you! Lastly, I mean you all to leave Tidbury, and live in a cottage of mine that’s empty now, and going to rack and ruin for want of a tenant. I’ll charge rent, mind, Mr Wray, and come for it every quarter myself, as regular as a tax-gatherer. I don’t insult an independent man by the offer of an asylum. Heaven forbid! but till you can do better, I want you to keep my cottage warm for me. I can’t give up seeing my new grandchild sometimes! And I want my chat with an old stager, about the British Drama and glorious John Kemble! To cut the thing short, sir: with such a prospect before them as this, do you object to my giving the healths of Mr and Mrs Martin Blunt that are to be!”

  Conquered by the Squire’s kind looks and words, as much as by his reasons, Old Reuben murmured approval of the toast, adding tenderly, as he looked round on Annie, “If she’ll only promise always to let me live with her!”

  “There, there!” cried Mr Colebatch, “don’t go kissing your grandfather before company like that you little jade; making other people envious of him on Christmas Day! Listen to this! Mr and Mrs Martin Blunt that are to be—married in a week!” added the old gentleman peremptorily.

  “Lord, sir!” said Mrs Buddle, “she can’t get her dresses ready in that time!”

  “She shall, ma’am, if every mantua-making wench in Tidbury stitches her fingers off for it! and there’s an end of my speech-making!” Having said this, the Squire dropped back into his chair with a gasp of satisfaction.

  “Now we are all happy!” he exclaimed, filling his glass; “and now we’ll set in to enjoy our port in earnest—eh, my good friend?”

  “Yes; all happy!” echoed old Reuben, patting Annie’s hand, which lay in his; “but I think I should be still happier, though, if I could only manage not to remember that horrible dream!”

  “Not remember it!” cried Mr Colebatch, “we’ll all remember it—all remember it together, from this time forth, in the same pleasant way!”

  “How? How?” exclaimed Mr Wray, eagerly.

  “Why, my good friend!” answered the Squire, tapping him briskly on the shoulder, “we’ll all remember it gaily, as nothing but a story for a Christmas fireside!”

  _______________

  A popular mid-Victorian author, William Wilkie Collins wrote several of the earliest recognized detective and suspense novels, including The Moonstone and The Woman in White. His works were also known for their commentary on current social injustices. “Mr Wray’s Cash Box” was first published in 1851.

  HO HO HOMICIDE, by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  An Odelia Grey Short Story

  Suddenly, my life had become a John le Carré novel.

  Directly behind me was a woman with a gun. Ahead of me, near the end of the mall service corridor, was a man wearing a long dark trench coat and a fedora tilted slightly over one eye. He had a thick black beard and leaned against the wall next to a No Smoking sign. Clenched between his teeth was a lit cigarette.

  “Bring her here,” he ordered for the second time in a voice heavy with an Eastern European accent.

  The woman poked the gun harder and deeper into my plus size flesh. I remained still, frozen to the floor as if wearing cement overshoes. Dangling from each of my hands were several large and very heavy shopping bags. My mind raced with only two issues: 1) how did I get into this jam? and 2) how do I get out of it without getting my Christmas goose cooked?

  The answer to my first question was easy. It’s all Santa’s fault. That’s right, I’m laying this whole mess at the black-booted feet of Santa Claus. None of this would have happened if Santa hadn’t sat his big fat red velvet behind next to my big fat denim-clad behind.

  With only five shopping days left till Christmas, I, Odelia Patience Grey, found myself at Friendship Mall, the state of the art mall in Las Piernas, California. The place was mobbed with people, most with eyes of glazed frenzy, as they tried to finish their shopping on this last weekend before the big day. Having finished my Christmas shopping weeks ago, there was no good reason for my being here except that I was being held hostage by a peace-on-earth, goodwill toward men mentality that had outlived its usefulness by one day. Meaning yesterday, when my father called and begged me to take my crazy stepmother shopping as a favor to him, I should have said bah humbug and hung up.

  But I love my Dad and it was Christmas. Even when he announced that Gigi wanted me to drive all the way to their house, pick her up and drive her all the way to Las Piernas to go to Friendship Mall, I didn’t waiver in my commitment to holiday good cheer.

  That was yesterday.

  Today I’d had to listen to Gigi’s endless prattle. She had talked non-stop the entire forty-five minute drive to the mall, the entire twenty minutes it had taken us to find a parking spot, and the entire time I escorted her from one packed store to another. Even stopping for lunch had not slowed down her mouth or her criticism of me one iota. The highlight of lunch was when Gigi tipped her bowl of soup. It splashed across the table and into my lap like a fast-moving lava flow. After lunch, I’d had to make a quick emergency stop at Lane Bryant to purchase a new pair of jeans and panties. As I left the store, a small child pushing a stroller plowed into the back of my legs and about severed the Achilles tendon on my right foot. Well, okay, not really sever it, but the assault was enough to make me yelp in pain and to draw blood.

  The Ghost of Christmas Miserable had obviously decided
to pay me a visit.

  After telling Gigi she’d have to continue shopping without me, I hobbled to a bench and sat down. Injured foot aside, I considered the stroller incident a blessing. It bought me time alone and a chance to sit down for a while. At least until Santa plopped his big butt down next to me with all the grace of an elephant dancing the Nutcracker.

  I glanced over at my new bench buddy, trying hard not to scowl as his shoulder knocked into mine. It was then that I noted that his Santa suit was grimy and tattered. Spying an empty bench a few yards away, I decided to move before he asked me to sit on his knee. I was in the midst of picking up my purse and shopping bag with my soiled clothing when the grubby Santa grabbed my arm.

  Whipping my head around, I found myself face to face with him. His dirty beard had slipped, uncovering thin pale lips. He blinked slowly but said nothing. He blinked again and tightened his grip on me. Without a sound, his lips squeezed together until all the blood drained from them. I thought at first he was drunk, but there was no smell of alcohol.

  I tried to pry his fingers from my arm while he continued to blink and stare. Just as I was about to call out for help, he spoke.

  “Help me.” The two words were barely audible, but filled with fear.

  I stopped trying to get away from him. “Are you ill?”

  With his other arm, he reached around in front like he was making a grab at me but only succeeded in banging into my shopping bag as he slumped against me. I tried to disentangle his hand from the bag while supporting him, but didn’t have much luck. Finally, his body shuddered a few times and went still.

  “Are you ill?” I asked again.

  I couldn’t reach my cell phone so I shouted out to people walking nearby. “Call 9-1-1.” Most ignored me and kept walking. Others stared but kept walking. A few stood frozen to the floor and stared slack-jawed.

  I made eye contact with a man carrying a Gap bag. “You,” I barked. “Call 9-1-1.” My order surprised him but he did as I asked. “This man is ill,” I continued, keeping the shopper locked in my sight as he punched numbers on his cell phone. “Get an ambulance.”

  A young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt pushed her way through the small crowd that had formed. “I’m a doctor,” she announced.

  The doctor squatted in front of Santa while I held him with one arm around him from behind and the other held against his chest. She checked his pulse then began working her hands quickly around his torso.

  “Shouldn’t we remove his coat?” I asked her.

  She ignored me as her hands traveled up and down his legs, including between them. It looked more like a frisk job than an examination.

  I was about to question her doctoring methods when the crowd stepped closer. I freed one of my hands and held it up. “Stay back. Give him some room.”

  Just then a woman in the group let out a little scream. Another followed. Everyone stared at me as if I were insane. Some scuttled away. The doctor disappeared as another woman screamed. This one louder than all the rest. I turned toward the scream and saw Gigi standing on the far right of the crowd, her hands slapped against both sides of her face in horror.

  “Odelia, what have you done now?”

  It was then I noticed the hand I was holding out to the crowd was covered with blood.

  * * * *

  “How do you know Leon Weinberg?”

  The man questioning me was a detective with the Las Piernas police who’d been called by mall security. He had introduced himself as Detective Aidan Wong. Standing alert but silent in a corner was a city cop. Seated at the far end of the table fidgeting with an unlit cigarette was Gigi. We were in a small conference room in the mall security office. The questioning had been going on for nearly an hour. It had been almost two hours since Santa expired in my arms.

  “Who’s Leon Weinberg?” I asked in return.

  “The dead Santa.”

  “Santa’s Jewish?”

  The detective studied me over the top of his wire framed glasses. “Why not? At least he wouldn’t mind working on Christmas.”

  “He’s not the usual mall Santa, is he?”

  “I’m supposed to be asking the questions here, Ms. Grey.”

  “Well,” I continued, ignoring his comment, “seems to me that mall Santas are a bit more photogenic. This one was dirty and had a ragged beard. He was also on the second floor, not on the first floor where Santa usually sits in these places.”

  I was about to say more when Gigi interrupted. “How much longer you gonna be?” she demanded, looking from me to Wong. “It’s getting late and I have more shopping to do. I still don’t have a thing for Dee Dee’s girls.” As she spoke, her beehive hairdo, dyed remarkably like Pepto Bismol, nodded in time to her words.

  Detective Wong started to say something, but I stopped him. “I’ll handle this,” I told him. “Believe me, you don’t want to get involved.”

  Gigi looked hard at the detective. “I’m just her stepmother, ya know? She’s no blood of mine.” As she ranted, she shook the unlit cigarette like a conductor’s baton. “Takes after her no-good run-off mother, this one does. My kids would never do such a thing.”

  Detective Wong and I exchanged looks, then he said to me, “Be my guest.”

  I turned to Gigi. “Did you bring your cell phone?”

  She pursed her lips in disapproval, but nodded.

  “Please turn it on and go shopping. When you’re done, just call me and I’ll find you and we’ll go home.” I paused. “In fact, why don’t you leave your packages and I’ll take them to the car when I’m done here. That way you won’t have to lug them around.”

  “Don’t know why you can’t stay out of trouble like normal people.” Gigi was still mumbling about my shortcomings as she was led by a woman with mall security back to the shopping area.

  I heard a throat clear and turned my attention back to Detective Wong.

  “So, how do you know Leon Weinberg?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know Leon Weinberg,” I insisted. “The man sat down next to me on the bench and two minutes later he was dead.”

  “Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

  “Yes, just like that.” I resisted the urge to snap my fingers back at him. Instead, I turned one of my legs so he could see the gouge in my ankle. “I was the victim of hit-and-run stroller rage. See? Then I sat down on the bench to rest and along came Santa…um…Mr. Wienberg.”

  “You didn’t know he’d been shot?”

  “As I told you before, I knew nothing until I saw blood on my hands. Just before he collapsed, he asked me to help him. He never said how or why.”

  “And this woman, this doctor, you said she examined him and left.”

  “She claimed she was a doctor. But she more or less frisked him then took off.” I paused. “Should I be calling my lawyer?”

  Detective Wong knitted his brows in my direction. “I don’t know, Ms. Grey, should you?”

  I had done nothing wrong except sit my butt down on a bench to rest, but still, maybe having someone here to help me through the questions would help. But who? Seth Washington, lawyer and hubby of my best friend, Zee, was out of town, as was my husband, Greg Stevens. That left two people who could advise me: my boss, Michael Steele, a crackerjack corporate attorney and royal pain in my butt, and Detective Devon Frye of the Newport Beach police. Dev had already bailed me out of more pickles than I care to say. The choice was between enduring Steele’s obnoxious remarks and Dev’s stern admonitions to keep out of trouble. It was a tough call.

  I looked up at Detective Wong. “May I have my cell phone? I’d like to call Detective Devon Frye of the Newport Beach police. He’s a friend.” Upon arrival, the police had confiscated my tote bag and the bag containing my soiled clothing. They had searched both, including Gigi’s bags, which had set her off like a Fourth of July rocket.
>
  “Dev Frye is a friend of yours?” There was disbelief in the detective’s voice.

  I nodded.

  “Then why don’t I call him for you?” Detective Wong produced his own phone.

  “The number is 949-555-8297,” I said, trying to being helpful. “That’s his direct line.”

  Detective Wong shot me a stern look as he punched in the numbers. He didn’t have to wait long before his call was answered. “Hey, Dev. Aidan Wong in Las Piernas here.” A pause. “Doing fine, thanks. Same ole’, same ole. You know how it is.” Another pause. “The reason I’m calling is I have someone here who says she’s a friend of yours. An Odella Grey.”

  “That’s Odelia,” I corrected.

  Detective Wong’s look changed from stern to a mild scowl before he turned his back to me and lowered his voice. I strained to hear his end of the conversation, not doubting for a minute Dev was giving him an earful of my colorful past with corpses.

  “That was her?” Detective Wong turned around and openly stared at me while he listened to Dev. “Uh huh. I see.” He held the phone out to me. There was an odd look on his face, like a smirk that was too pooped to complete the task. “He wants to speak with you.”

  My first inclination was to refuse the call, but I knew that would be a stupid thing to do. After all, I wanted Dev to help me, not to tell Wong to lock me up and throw away the key. I took the phone.

  “Hi. Dev? I know this looks a tad odd, but I could really use your help.” I was gripped by the babble gods, powerless to stop. “You see, all I did was sit down on a bench and Santa, well not the real Santa, sat next to me and died. I swear I had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with it and I have no idea who this person is…was. And I promise I—” Dev stopped me mid-sentence. I listened to him a few minutes, smart enough now to keep my mouth shut. When he was through, I handed the phone back to Detective Wong. “Your turn again.”

  Shortly after the call to Dev, I found myself back out in the mall loaded down with shopping bags. Detective Wong had told me to collect Gigi and to go home. Pronto. Under no circumstances was I to play detective in his city. His warning was also word-for-word what Dev had ordered me to do. They could have saved their breath. A pack of angry elves riding rabid reindeer could not have gotten me involved with Santa’s murder. All I wanted was to find Gigi, drop her off at her house and head home to a hot bath and Chinese takeout.