Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries)

by Judith Ivie

  “I'm all right, Armando. At least, I'm not sick, or does being heartsick count? Because I certainly am that.” Once begun, I couldn't seem to stop. “Everything is such a mess. James O’Halloran is still missing, and his wife thinks he's run off with a former lover who had a child by him. Emma is besotted with some young hunk that Joey thinks is cheating on her. Strutter seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, and now I'm going to have to wrestle with that stupid goose by myself. Jasmine is hanging on by a thread, and on Sunday, Jeff and Donna are getting married here, and the caterer doesn't like our house much. It wasn't even the big cheese himself who showed up tonight. It was some officious little gnome with a big clipboard who kind of sneered at everything I showed him and kept saying everything had to be perfect for the boss on Sunday,” I concluded my litany of misery.

  Silence. Then, “What is going on with Jasmine?” As usual, Armando sifted through the superficial grievances and focused on the matter of most importance.

  “She's pining. She won't eat. I haven't heard her purr since you left. She misses you.”

  “She misses me?” I could hear the teasing smile in his voice, but I wasn't so far gone that I would admit to being a complete basket case without him.

  “The vet says we should get another cat to give her a new interest in life.”

  “So we shall,” he said equably. “Unfortunately, there is no shortage of homeless felines, as we both know.”

  “How can I do that, Armando? How can I go to one of those shelters and choose just one to come home with us, leave the others behind?”

  “I will help you, and we will hope that the others soon have their chance,” Armando soothed.

  We were quiet for a moment. Nothing had really changed in the last five minutes, and yet everything had.

  “Why is it necessary for you to wrestle with a goose?” Armando changed gears. His understanding of English idioms sometimes failed him. I smiled to myself but wasn't ready to laugh.

  “It's in the Martha Stewart handbook on staging the perfect Christmas Eve,” I told him. “Don't worry about it. I can handle it.”

  Armando chuckled. “I am quite certain that you can. I have complete faith in you.” I could hear the sudden weariness in his voice. My conscience smote me for having wakened him. “Will you be all right until I get there?” he murmured drowsily.

  “Depends. When will that be, exactly?”

  “Just as soon as I can find an empty seat on a plane flying east. It is Christmas, you know.”

  “Believe me,” I sighed, “no one knows that better than I do. Go back to sleep.”

  Eight

  Armando and I had a long history. Following my amicable divorce from Michael some ten years ago, I had settled happily into my single existence. Emma and Joey had been safely launched, so I had no one but myself and my two old cats to worry about. Quite frankly, it was heaven.

  I have always been content in my own company and don't understand people who are uncomfortable going places alone. A newspaper or whatever book I'm currently reading makes perfect company in a coffee shop or restaurant, and if I don't like a movie after the first half-hour, I enjoy being able to leave, if I've gone by myself. Without someone else's preferences or schedule to consider, I was free to go where I wanted, when I wanted, outside of the constraints of my job.

  At that time, I was the marketing manager of a small but growing telecommunications company called, appropriately enough, TeleCom, Inc. The fact that my job was hectic and frustrating only added to my enjoyment of my peace and solitude at the end of every day.

  The one thing I did not choose to do after the divorce was date. I simply had no interest in pursuing the inevitable romantic entanglements that dating engendered. It might have been pleasant to share an evening with an attractive man or two, but the experiences of my women friends in that area had taught me that dating—just dating—was a tricky business. The men to whom one was attracted were invariably elusive, but those one found far less appealing almost always presumed an attachment one did not feel. Complications, hurt feelings, and general emotional chaos ensued.

  Far better, I decided, to remain footloose and fancy free, and for several years, I did just that. Then Armando came to work as TeleCom's new comptroller.

  Because investor relations was a large part of my job, our paths crossed frequently. During our meetings to discuss the quarterly reports to the Securities Exchange Commission and various other government agencies, I couldn't help but notice Armando's Latin good looks and delightfully accented baritone. His gentlemanly manners were also a definite plus. I was aware that he was single, but since romantic entanglements were off my agenda, I really didn't think about him in that way.

  It was his mischievous sense of humor that finally did me in.

  “What do you mean?” Strutter probed, as our waitress put steaming cups of coffee on the table before us. Strutter had resurfaced after three days of nursing her husband through the flu. We had agreed to meet at the diner, since I didn't have to be at the UCC until one o'clock. Baby Olivia napped obligingly in her rocker chair. From time to time, she sucked furiously on her pacifier, frowning in concentration. “Did he play a practical joke on you or something?”

  I smiled as I remembered what had so captivated me. “No, nothing like that. It was around this time of year, as a matter of fact, just before Christmas. I asked him if he missed being in South America, or if he had he gotten used to our American way of celebrating Christmas. He assured me that he was totally acclimated. As a silly sort of test, I asked him if he could name Santa's reindeer.”

  Strutter looked thoughtful as she sipped her coffee. “Gee, I don't think I could do that. It's like the Seven Dwarves. You think you know them until somebody asks you to name them, and then you bog down after four or five.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,” I answered her unspoken question.

  She grinned. “Good thing I didn't put money on that bet. So how did Armando do with your little quiz?”

  “He didn't even hesitate. He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Flasher, Rainbow, Pretzel…’ and I don't know what else, because I completely cracked up.”

  Strutter looked as if she had somehow missed the joke. “That was it? That was what captured your heart?”

  “You had to be there,” I assured her, but she remained skeptical.

  “After that?”

  “After that, we had lunch a couple of times and then dinner a couple of times …”

  “Then wild, crazy sex a couple of times.”

  I smiled into my coffee cup.

  “So last year you moved in together. What comes next?”

  I looked at her innocently, pretending not to understand.

  “When's the wedding?” she demanded in exasperation.

  “You know my feelings on that subject.”

  “Uh huh.” She twitched Olivia's blanket into place. “I also know that feelings change. I wasn't in the market for a second husband when my John came along, and you were determined to avoid men altogether, as I recall.” She shrugged. “Stuff happens, and you change your mind.”

  As usual, she was perceptive almost to the point of clairvoyance. I often kidded her about her Jamaican ancestry, remarking that she would have made a splendid Obeah-woman. “We've talked about it,” I admitted now.

  “We all know that, but it's been a heck of a long conversation. Come on, spill it.” She leaned forward, and I held up my hands to ward her off.

  “Whoa, slow down. There's nothing to spill. We just decided that we both needed some time to be sure that's what we want to do, that's all.”

  “How much time?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I believe we said we'd give it a year.”

  “When was that?”

  The woman was a pit bull. I put my cup carefully into its saucer. “It was a year ago, okay?”

  “Aha, I knew it! I just had a feeling it was time,�
� she said happily.

  I couldn't help but smile along with her. “You could be right. I thought I would enjoy having my solitude back this week while Armando is traveling, but I've missed him like crazy.”

  “That's how it happens,” she said with satisfaction. “They drive you absolutely nuts half the time, and then when they're not around, you miss them. It's the damnedest thing.”

  “It is that,” I agreed, “but I can't even begin to think about my own wedding until I get Jeff's and Donna's done.”

  “Oh, man, I almost forgot about that. The Christmas Eve production for Emma and the boyfriend isn't bad enough. You have to host a wedding in your house on Sunday.”

  “Well, hosting is a bit of an overstatement,” I amended in the interest of accuracy. “Michael and Sheila have really done the planning, and there's a local caterer who's doing the heavy lifting. I'm just providing the house, is all.”

  “Minister or Justice of the Peace?” Strutter asked. She put down her cup and pressed one hand to her midsection.

  “J. P. What's the matter with your stomach?”

  “I don't know. It's probably nothing, but I surely don't want any more coffee.” She looked at her watch. “I think Olivia and I had better hit the road anyway. She has a check-up at eleven-thirty, and we don't want to keep Dr. Peterson waiting.”

  As if on cue, Olivia awakened from her nap. Instead of fussing, as most infants do when coming out of sleep, she let her pacifier drop neatly onto her blanket and smiled at her mom.

  “It figures you would get the perfect baby,” I commented as we gathered our belongings and headed for the door. “Does this child ever give you a bad time?”

  “You bet,” Strutter replied cheerfully, “especially when she's teething. She's cutting a tooth right now, as a matter of fact. She wailed like a banshee all last night. I was afraid she was coming down with that awful flu John had, but nope, it was just a tooth.”

  We packed up quickly and headed in opposite directions after leaving the diner. After taking care of a couple of pressing errands, I headed into Hartford under low clouds that threatened snow. I would arrive a bit before my appointed time, but if I got through the pile of paperwork that waited on my desk, I planned to treat myself to an hour or so of the open rehearsal for the Christmas Eve services at the Cathedral. Sister Marguerite had told me about it the previous day.

  “The midnight mass is solemn and impressive, to be sure,” she had told me just yesterday, but the early mass with the little ones and the families of every color and configuration … ah, ‘tis something to see, Katie, and the music!” She clasped her hands in rapture. “I know you're not a believer, though we're working on that, but I know you've a soft spot for the music,” she twinkled at me over the top of her reading spectacles. I felt heat flood my face.

  “You don't miss much, do you, Sister?” I squirmed in embarrassment.

  “’twouldn't be the first time someone slipped out during one of my reports. I can just about keep from nodding off myself,” she chuckled. “So if music is the chink in your armor, I'm not above taking advantage of it. You get yourself over to the Cathedral late tomorrow afternoon for the choir rehearsal. We're locking up here at three o'clock, and you can skedaddle right on over.”

  “Won't anyone mind my just strolling in?” Even to my agnostic sensibilities, it seemed blasphemous to intrude on such an occasion.

  “Bless you, child, no one will even notice you among all the singers and musicians.”

  “Musicians? That magnificent organ isn't enough?”

  “Not on Christmas, no, indeed. There's a string quartet and a small brass ensemble, as well. You know what they say. We Catholics know how to put on a good show, isn't that right, Aloysius?” Her full-throated laugh rang out, and the old poodle's tail thumped merrily in agreement. “As I started to say, besides all of the performers, the rehearsal is open to the public. Lots of folks, especially the old ones who don't like to venture out after dark, will be there. You'll simply be one of the crowd,” she assured me. “So go find yourself some Christmas.”

  I remembered her words as I crept from traffic light to traffic light along Asylum Avenue. Here I was, surrounded by some of the most venerable churches in Hartford. Each and every one of them was in an ecstasy of preparation for the anniversary of Christ's birth, the real Christmas. Yet even in the midst of such joy, miles from the frenzied commercialism which so depressed me, I still could not get into the spirit of the season. Armando was so far away. My daughter was ensnared in a one-sided love affair that was certain to turn out badly. Every second person I talked to had at least one family member down with the flu. The Wadsworth gala had turned into an unspeakable tragedy. Even my old cat was inconsolable.

  In the face of all that, I doubted that a few carols, however expertly performed, would turn the season around for me. Still, I looked forward to the rehearsal as a bright spot in an otherwise dreary day.

  I worked steadily through the correspondence, grant applications and questionnaires from funding agencies that had accumulated since the previous day. Once again, I marveled at the amount of paperwork that was involved in the charity business. Identifying appropriate funders and preparing grant applications was just the tip of the iceberg. Any contract that was awarded came with a multitude of requirements, each of which necessitated reams of documentation for compliance purposes. I had thought that the law firm for which Margo, Strutter and I had all worked a few years back took top honors for paper consumption, but the UCC left it in the dust.

  True to her word, Sister Marguerite shooed the staff on our way at three o'clock. We wished each other a pleasant holiday with as much manufactured cheer as we could muster, unplugged the Christmas tree in the conference room, set the security alarm, and filed out into the darkening afternoon.

  The snow which had been threatening all day had begun to fall in fat, wet flakes that quickly coated the cars in the parking lot. Everyone else scurried for home and the million and one details still requiring their attention, but I headed for the back entrance of the Cathedral on the other side of the parking lot. Just one hour, I promised myself, and then I'll go home and face the preparations for my Christmas Eve ordeal.

  As usual, the sheer presence of the Cathedral inspired my admiration, but it was the music that raised goose bumps on my arms as soon as the door shut behind me. I climbed the stairs quietly to the main level, pulled upward by the tones emanating from the majestic Austin organ. This time, it accompanied the Cathedral choir, which was practicing the Christmas section of Handel's Messiah. I hoped I had not missed a run-through of the “Hallelujah Chorus” from that stirring work.

  Although not full, by any means, many of the pews were occupied. I slipped into a seat on the right, near the confessionals that lined the wall. Looking around as the music director instructed the choir on a tricky passage, I was surprised to see a light on above one of the curtained booths. I presumed that meant it was in use. Apparently, the work of saving souls must continue, Christmas or not. I had no knowledge of what transpired between priest and confessor, but if the movies were to be trusted, eventually the curtain would open, and the penitent would find his or her way to an open pew. There, he or she would utter prayers of atonement. How wonderful it must be to be so easily freed of guilt for one's unworthy thoughts and deeds, I mused. We nonbelievers must just muddle on, doing the best we can from day to day and hoping we get it right occasionally.

  A brisk countdown from the director, accompanied by a signal for the choir to stand, recaptured my wandering attention, and I sat forward as the organ boomed out the introduction to the hoped-for chorus. As always, the jubilant harmonies elated me, as they had everyone who heard them in the two hundred plus years since Handel had composed them. I thought about the thousands, if not millions, of singers throughout the world who would thrill to the masterpiece over the next few days. What a gift, I thought yet again, to be able to create a work of such splendor to uplift the spirits of those who c
ame after you in perpetuity.

  “Divine inspiration, you might say,” Sister Marguerite inserted herself into my thoughts, and I smiled in spite of myself. I would leave that door open to appease her.

  As the piece reached its final crescendo, the curtain on the confessional flicked open. Its occupant emerged, a middle-aged man wearing a rather dirty raincoat, his head bowed. The appreciative listeners around me burst into spontaneous applause as the confessor dragged himself down the outer aisle instead of seating himself in a pew, as I had expected. He appeared oblivious to the applause. Keeping his head low, he pulled up the collar of the shabby raincoat and headed for the door through which I had entered.

  He probably prefers to do his praying in private, I thought absently, clapping enthusiastically with the others as the director made a sweeping bow. Who can blame him? Anyone who has sins grievous enough to drive him into the confessional in the midst of all this festivity must have a heavy burden to lay down.The man's face, what little I could see of it above the raincoat collar, was pale and drawn, his whole demeanor inexpressibly weary. He reminded me a little of someone, but I couldn't think who.

  As the tumultuous applause died down, a young priest stepped from the confessional into the aisle and stood looking after the retreating figure. His face registered conflicting emotions, none of them good. Then I knew who the man in the raincoat reminded me of.

  Nine

  Christmas Eve morning, and my nose was in Strutter's cookbook once again. This time, I was seeking roasting instructions for the turkey sitting in my sink. I had already dealt with the, eww, giblets, rinsed the thing, and patted it dry. The cavity had been salted, peppered, and stuffed with pieces of carrot, onion and celery. Now I was instructed to “place the bird on a roasting rack in a shallow pan, and roast at a temperature of three hundred twenty-five degrees for twenty minutes per pound or until the juices run clear when a knife is inserted between the leg and the body.”