by Joanne Fluke
Bill shook his head. “We’re broke.” He shrugged. “And besides, being with you and Toby means more to me than any stupid, unrealistic dream.”
“You worked so hard.”
“It wasn’t enough,” he said. “But I’m okay with it.” He looked out the window at the rapidly dimming sunlight. He opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “This is it, the family fortune. I guess I’ll get some batteries, so we can get the lights back on.”
He left and Lucy sat in the darkening room, holding Toby in her lap and blinking back tears. This was not the way Christmas was supposed to be.
Chapter Ten
A sharp rap on the door roused Lucy and she stood up, perched Toby on her hip, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before opening the door. It was Wilf Lundgren, the postman, with a package.
“This came in the last delivery and I thought I’d bring it along since it was on my way,” he said, looking for all the world like Santa with his red nose and cheeks. “Otherwise you wouldn’t get it until Tuesday, Christmas being on Sunday and all.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, her voice still thick from crying.
“Have you got some trouble here?” asked Wilf, looking past her into the dark kitchen. “I see the lights are out.”
“I must’ve overloaded a circuit.” Lucy shifted Toby to the other hip. “My husband went to get some flashlight batteries.”
“Is that all? I’ve got a flashlight in the truck,” he said, turning and hurrying down the walk to the driveway. In a moment he was back carrying the biggest flashlight Lucy had ever seen and marching straight to the pantry and lowering himself through the hatch to the cellar. “Better unplug a few things,” he said, before ducking beneath the floor. “Ready?” he called.
Lucy dashed around the kitchen, unplugging appliances, and scurried into the living room to turn off the TV. “Ready,” she called back and in a moment the lights were on and the Christmas tree was radiant with glowing colors.
“Well, isn’t that a beautiful sight?” said Wilf, who had emerged from the cellar and was standing in the doorway.
Toby, excited by the sight of the tree, was bouncing in her arms. “Now it feels like Christmas,” said Lucy, setting him down and keeping a watchful eye as he toddled toward the tree. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“It was nothing,” said Wilf. “Just being neighborly, that’s all.”
“Well, I really appreciate it,” continued Lucy, who was terrified of the old-fashioned root cellar beneath the pantry and the spiders and mice and snakes she imagined lurked there. “I mean, you went down into the cellar…and you brought that package, too, when you didn’t have to. It was really awfully nice of you…can I give you a cup of coffee or something before you go back out in the cold?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup,” said Wilf, amused by Lucy’s extreme expressions of gratitude.
“The pot’s still hot,” sang Lucy, pouring a cup for him and one for herself, too, and setting some of her precious Christmas cookies on a plate. Toby had followed them into the kitchen and she hoisted him into his high chair, pouring a glass of apple juice for him.
“Very good,” said Wilf, approvingly, chewing on a cookie. “Looks like you’ve got company,” he observed, glancing out the window.
“Probably Bill,” said Lucy, going to the door. But it wasn’t Bill, it was Miss Tilley she saw walking carefully along the path.
“Come in, come in,” said Lucy, opening the door and shivering in the cold blast. “Come out of the cold.”
“I was just making my rounds, oh, hi there, Wilf,” began Miss Tilley. “And I thought you might like some of my eggnog. It’s an old family recipe.”
“That’s so kind,” said Lucy, accepting two old-fashioned glass milk bottles filled with creamy liquid.
“I wouldn’t mind trying some of that,” said Wilf.
“You know, I didn’t get a chance to taste it myself,” said Miss Tilley. “I wanted to make my deliveries and get home before the snow starts.”
“Well, let’s all have some,” said Lucy, popping into the pantry to get the punch cups she received as a wedding present but had never used.
“If you’re getting cups, you’ll need some more,” called Miss Tilley. “The Miller sisters have just pulled into the driveway.”
“Really?” asked Lucy, staggering out with the heavy crystal punch bowl filled with a dozen cups. “What brings them here?”
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” chorused the sisters, entering the kitchen which was becoming a bit crowded.
“We brought you some cookies,” announced Emily, or was it Ellie?
“That’s right. We made them ourselves,” added the other, holding out an enormous tin with a jolly Santa design. “Sand tarts.”
“I haven’t had those in years,” said Wilf.
“My mother used to make them,” said Miss Tilley.
“Well, let’s all have some eggnog and cookies,” invited Lucy. “Can I take your coats?”
She was just hanging the ladies’ matching red coats on the hooks by the door when there was another knock on the door. Lucy was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of planned invasion, or perhaps it was just what people in small towns did at Christmas. Whatever was going on, the table was filling up with people and the house was filled with chatter and laughter. She opened the door, hoping whoever it was had brought food, and found Sherman Cobb holding a foil-covered pan that looked like it contained a turkey. A turkey! And behind him she recognized Rachel Goodman and Richie, along with a man she assumed was Bob, Rachel’s husband. They were all holding foil-covered dishes, except Richie, who had a can of cranberry sauce.
“What is all this?” she asked.
“We heard your oven was broken,” began Sherman, smiling in Miss Tilley’s direction. “So we brought you Christmas dinner. Are you going to let us in?”
“Oh, please, please do come in,” said Lucy.
“By the way, we haven’t met, but I’m Rachel’s husband,” said Bob. “Do you have a stereo?”
“In the living room,” said Lucy.
“Great. I brought some Christmas cassettes,” he said, handing off a bowl of stuffing and heading down the hall with a shopping bag slung over his arm. Moments later the house was filled with Bing Crosby’s mellow voice.
Lucy was standing there, holding a bowl of stuffing and trying to decide what to do with the turkey when there was yet another knock on the door and Fred Rumford stuck his head in.
“Hi, everybody,” he called, marching in and setting a jug of wine and a case of beer on the table. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas!” they all cried back.
“Now it’s a party,” said Wilf, reaching for a beer.
“Where’s your dining room?” asked Rachel. “I think we better set the food up there.”
“This way,” said Lucy, feeling rather dazed as she lead the way. “I can’t believe this.”
“I hope it’s all right,” said Rachel. “You didn’t have other plans, did you?”
“No, no. We were just going to have a quiet celebration,” confessed Lucy, shaking out a cloth and spreading it on the table. From the kitchen she heard voices and laughter, there was music in the living room and Toby and Richie were chasing each other through the rooms. “This is much better.”
“Good,” said Rachel, setting down the turkey. “Now we’ll need plates and silverware….”
“In the pantry. I’ll be right back.”
Entering the kitchen she encountered Sue Finch, who had arrived with her daughter and a man dressed in a Santa suit. “This is Sid,” she said.
“Not Sid, Santa,” he replied, hoisting a bulging red bag. “And I brought presents.”
The party was in full swing when Bill arrived. Plates were filled, glasses were emptied, music was playing, and the kids were dancing around the tree. Everybody was having a great time.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“The n
eighbors dropped by to wish us a Merry Christmas,” said Lucy, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Eggnog?”
“Sure,” he said, taking a cup and shaking his head in amazement.
Lucy and Bill were still amazed several hours later, when everyone had left and they were tidying up.
“I just can’t believe it,” said Bill. “They gave us an entire Christmas. Food. Drink. Even presents for Toby.”
“I think Miss Tilley organized it,” said Lucy, clearing off the kitchen table. She was gathering up paper napkins and wrapping paper when she found the package Wilf had delivered. “I forgot all about this,” she said, taking a closer look. “It’s from your parents.”
Bill glanced over. “It’s probably fruitcake,” he said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “They send them every year.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, rather disappointed. “I suppose it’s nourishing, with all that fruit and nuts.”
“If you can digest it,” said Bill.
“Don’t you want to open it?” asked Lucy. “Maybe it’s not fruitcake. Maybe it’s a surprise.”
“My parents don’t do surprises,” said Bill, cutting the tape with a knife. “It’s fruitcake.”
Lucy took the box and opened the top, hoping he was wrong. He wasn’t. Inside was a gold and brown tin with MOTHER’S TRADITIONAL HOLIDAY FRUITCAKE printed on the top. “There’s a note,” she said, handing him a cream-colored envelope.
“You open it,” said Bill, whose hands were still bandaged. “It’s probably just a printed card. ‘Holiday Greetings from the Stones.’”
“So it is,” said Lucy, “but there’s something else.” She unfolded a piece of notepaper and a blue check fell out onto the table.
“Is that a check?” asked Bill, who had seen it out of the corner of his eye.
“It is,” said Lucy, sitting down.
“The usual fifty bucks?”
“Not exactly,” said Lucy, who was holding the little slip of paper in trembling hands. “More like fifteen thousand.”
Bill’s jaw dropped. “Say that again.”
“It’s for fifteen thousand dollars,” repeated Lucy. “And there’s a note.”
Bill took the check. “I can’t believe it. What possessed him?”
“Read the note,” said Lucy, handing the folded piece of paper to him.
Bill’s eyes quickly scanned his father’s neatly printed, squarish letters.
“Out loud,” prompted Lucy.
He cleared his voice. “‘Dear Son, Your mother and I figured this might come in handy about now. We’ve had some experience with home renovations and we know they always cost more than you expect.’” Bill snorted in agreement. “‘We also want to wish you well in your new endeavor which we’re sure will be successful.’ Mom must have twisted his arm,” said Bill, pausing.
“Give your father some credit,” said Lucy. “Is that all?”
“No. He goes on. ‘I have to confess, now that I’m facing retirement and looking back on my career, I wish I’d had your courage and pursued my dreams instead of a paycheck. Love, Dad.’”
“Wow,” said Lucy.
“Wow,” echoed Bill. “I guess I’d better give him and Mom a call.”
Later that night, while Bill snored gently beside her, Lucy was still too excited to sleep. She knew people always said Christmas was a time of miracles, but this was the first time she had actually experienced it. For the most part, truth be told, Christmas had always been a bit of a disappointment, never quite living up to the hype. But this, this was amazing. Now Bill would be able to finish the house and start his new career. And, even better, the ruptured relationship with his parents that had hung over them like a dark cloud had been cleared. Now they could look forward to family gatherings, and Toby would once again have grandparents to shower him with love and attention.
Lucy smiled and turned over, spooning her body against Bill’s. She would never forget the way her new Maine friends and neighbors had given them such a wonderful Christmas. Living in Tinker’s Cove certainly had its advantages; she couldn’t imagine her neighbors in New York City behaving like this. There, people gave to charity, but they didn’t concern themselves with their neighbor’s misfortunes. In fact, she realized, she herself had never given a thought to little Miss Delaporte down the hall in 12G, who was at least eighty and never had a visitor. Maybe she could have dropped in with a plate of cookies, but she’d never bothered to take the time.
From now on, she resolved, she would be more like Miss Tilley. She would take an interest in her neighbors and if she saw someone in need, she would try to help. In a way, that’s what she had tried to do when she attempted to solve the mystery of Mrs. Tilley’s death. But it hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped. Her eyes were heavy and her breathing was becoming regular, she was sinking into sleep, and her last thought was regret that she had failed to bring peace of mind to Miss Tilley.
Christmas dawned clear and bright, the sunlight magnified by the fresh snow that had fallen during the night. Outside was a glittering white wonderland and inside was the usual chaos as Toby opened his presents: new clothes and books and a go-cart from Bill’s parents, and an impressive assortment of marked-down plastic trucks and balls and a super-sized teddy bear Bill had picked up when he bought the batteries. When they added the recycled toys that Sid Finch had brought, it added up to quite a pile and Toby was happily investigating his haul, playing first with one and then another. Lucy and Bill took advantage of the moment to exchange their gifts for each other.
“You go first,” said Lucy, handing him a cheerfully wrapped present.
“I thought we’d agreed….” protested Bill.
“It’s little enough,” said Lucy, smiling as he unwrapped a Walkman cassette player.
“This is great,” he said. “How’d you know I wanted one?”
“I didn’t. I just thought you might like to listen to music while you work.”
“I do. This is perfect. Thanks. Now you go,” he said, handing her a drugstore bag tied with a big red bow. “Sorry about the wrapping.”
“I guess I’ll forgive you this time, since your hands are burned.”
“Right,” he said. “Open it.”
Lucy withdrew a paperback book, a compendium of New England crimes. “This is great,” she said, delighted. “How’d you think of it?”
Bill blushed. “Well, I knew you were interested in what happened to Miss Tilley’s mother, and you’ve been reading mysteries.”
“That was very thoughtful. Thank you,” she said, opening the book and scanning the table of contents. One listing immediately caught her eye: The Angel of Death. Settling back into the corner of the couch she turned the pages and began reading, fascinated by the story of a nurse who was thought to have killed more than twenty of her patients using a variety of hard-to-detect methods such as drug overdoses, poison and smothering. “Oh my God,” she breathed, her eyes glued to the page.
“I didn’t think you’d like it this much,” complained Bill, who was feeling ignored.
“You won’t believe this. This woman, this nurse, she’s the one who killed Mrs. Tilley. It fits, exactly. It all fits.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. It’s all here. Even her name. Well, her aliases. Anne DePasquale, Andrea Dale, Anita DeSouza. Always a first name beginning with A and a last name beginning with D. Angela DeRosa, that was the name she used when she was supposedly caring for Mrs. Tilley. Everybody thought she was an angel, but she was actually killing off her patients.”
“How’d they figure it out?”
“People started getting suspicious when none of her patients ever seemed to recover,” said Lucy. “One man who happened to be a chemist analyzed the medicine she was giving his wife and found it was arsenic and went to the police.”
“Did they arrest her?”
“They tried,” said Lucy, reaching the end of the chapter, “but she killed herself before they could take her into custody. A lethal dose o
f strychnine.”
“She must have been nuts,” said Bill, lifting Toby onto his lap and opening a picture book.
“I’ve got to call Miss Tilley,” said Lucy, heading for the phone.
Miss Tilley answered the phone with a cheerful “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you,” replied Lucy. “And thank you for yesterday. It was a wonderful surprise.”
“I think everyone enjoyed themselves,” said Miss Tilley. “I put quite a bit of brandy in the eggnog, just to help things along.”
“So that’s your secret,” said Lucy. She paused. “I think I’ve found your mother’s murderer—and it wasn’t your father.”
“Who was it?”
“The nurse. Angela.”
“No, no. She was so kind….”
“It’s in a book. She killed at least twenty of her patients, maybe more.”
“She was convicted?”
“No. She killed herself before there could be a trial. There was an investigation, though, and some of her victims were exhumed and their bodies contained poison.”
“I can hardly believe it.”
“Nobody could. That’s how she had so many victims.”
“Papa never liked her.”
“He had good instincts.”
“He was innocent!” announced Miss Tilley, joyfully.
“Absolutely,” said Lucy. “I just wanted you to know, but I’ve got to get back to my family….”
“Thank you. This was a wonderful Christmas present. The best Christmas present I ever had.”
“But I still don’t know where the cane came from,” said Lucy. “Maybe it was a gift from Emil Boott.”
“Or maybe my mother planned to give it to my father as a Christmas gift.”
“We’ll never know,” said Lucy.
“No, that will have to remain a mystery,” said Miss Tilley. “Merry Christmas!”
CHRISTMAS SPRITZ COOKIES
Lucy’s mother always made these cookies every Christmas. They require a cookie press, which is a gizmo rather like a caulking gun that is available in kitchen supply stores.
1¼ cups sugar
2 cups butter