We Wish You a Merry Murder

by Valerie Wolzien

  “You’re right. I’d forgotten that.” Kathleen stared off into space.

  “How about some coffee?” Susan suggested. “There’s a deli out in the mall.”

  “I’d like some tea,” Kathleen said. “I still feel stuffed from all that food I scarfed down in your kitchen last night.”

  “Your mother is some cook,” Susan observed.

  “Definitely. She’s spoiling Jerry and I’m gaining weight—and now she’s working on filling my freezer so I won’t have to do any cooking after she leaves. To be honest, she’s driving me crazy.”

  “Claire is making Jed a little nuts, too,” Susan said, following Kathleen out into the enclosed mall. “She treats him like he was still her little boy, and he treats her as if she’s so senile that she needs watching every minute. Every time she leaves the house with Dr. Barr, he paces around and worries until she returns.”

  “I noticed that last night.”

  “So Merry Christmas,” Susan sighed, opening the door to the deli. “Why are these family celebrations such a strain?”

  “Good question.” Kathleen followed her to a booth at the back of the room. “You know, I’ve been thinking about families a lot these days.”

  “Me, too. Because we were talking about the St. Johns and the Stevensons, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” Kathleen had been thinking about her mother and her husband.

  “Well, it occurred to me that—”

  “Kathleen, Susan. It’s like a miracle. I was thinking about you both—thinking that you were the only people who could solve my problem. And I looked up and there you were—not just one of you, but both of you.”

  “Kelly.” Kathleen spoke first. “Sit down.”

  Susan didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything. Kelly Knowlson looked as if she hadn’t slept all week; her eyes were red, her skin patchy and dry, her lips chapped, her hair only slightly controlled by a terry elastic. Her clothing was a mess, unkempt and unclean, and she was gripping the table as though afraid she might fall over without its dubious support. What was happening? Susan took a deep breath and got up. “Yes, Kelly. Sit down here. In my seat.” And she shoved her rather roughly onto the bench.

  “Do you want something to eat? Some coffee?” Kathleen asked, moving over so Susan could share her side of the booth.

  “No. Nothing. I can’t eat. I think I should, but then I can’t force myself to put it in my mouth. Just the thought of chewing makes me gag.” Kelly wiped her hand across her mouth as she spoke.

  “Another cup.” Kathleen gave the order to the waitress who had appeared with their order. “And another pot of tea.”

  “Just something to drink,” Susan urged, removing the tea bag and adding two teaspoons of sugar to Kathleen’s cup before pushing it across the table at Kelly. “Try it. Just try it.”

  Kelly stared at the liquid, but didn’t move.

  “Just try it. If you start feeling sick, we’ll go to the ladies’ room. When was the last time you ate a meal?” Susan asked.

  “I don’t remember. The day of Evan’s party, I guess. You and I had hot chocolate that night before we found him … remember? I may have had some of that,” Kelly answered uncertainly. “And I’ve nibbled on some cookies left over from the cookie exchange, but the thought of a full meal makes me queasy.”

  “You didn’t eat anything for lunch the day after that when I was at your house,” Kathleen reminded her.

  “I told you … It makes me feel sick to even think about eating,” Kelly repeated.

  Susan pushed the tea closer to her. “Just a small sip. Then I won’t say anything else. Please. I’m worried about you.”

  “Okay. Just a little sip,” Kelly agreed. “As soon as it gets cooler.” She put her hands around the cup as if to warm them.

  Susan noticed that she had bitten all her nails almost down to the cuticle.

  “Maybe we should leave here and find someplace better to talk,” Kathleen suggested as the room began to fill up with harried shoppers carrying full bags.

  “No, I feel comfortable here,” Kelly insisted. “Here, I’ll try the tea,” she offered, like a small child anxious to please.

  “Fine,” Susan said urging her on. “It will be good for you.”

  “I guess so.” Kelly sipped, swallowed audibly, and looked up at the two women, tears in her eyes. “I’m going to be arrested, aren’t I?”

  “Arrested?”

  “For Evan’s death. Even though I didn’t do it, of course. He wasn’t poisoned.” She scrunched up a paper napkin and dabbed at her tears.

  “Poisoned? Who said anything about poisoning?” Kathleen asked quickly.

  “Evan was shot,” Susan insisted. “Why are you talking about poison?”

  Kelly took another sip of tea before answering. “It’s in the New York Times today,” she said obliquely.

  “What is in the Times today?” Susan asked gently, wondering if the strain had driven Kelly mad.

  “It’s in the gardening column,” Kelly said, and started to cry.

  “The gardening column?” Kathleen repeated.

  Susan, who was sitting where she could see the door of the deli, got up. “Just a sec,” she said, hurrying off.

  Kelly sat and sipped the tea. Kathleen wondered if everyone was going crazy.

  “Here. There was a stand just outside the door. This is today’s paper. It’s this issue you’re talking about, isn’t it?” Susan asked Kelly.

  Kelly looked at the front page and nodded her head. “Yes. That’s it.”

  Susan pulled the third section from the middle of the pile and opened it from the back. “It’s usually …” She stopped and began reading as soon as she found the column that Kelly had described. It took a few minutes and, when done, she looked up at Kelly and bit her lip. “Rebecca said they were daffodils,” she said.

  “Narcissus,” came the one-word reply.

  “And mistletoe,” Susan said.

  “And English yew, and the tiny leaves of poinsettias, and lettuce, and mushrooms—”

  “Mushrooms?” Susan interrupted to ask.

  “From the Grand Union,” Kelly explained. “Everything else was just normal salad ingredients.”

  “Except for the narcissus, and mistletoe, and poinsettia, and English yew,” Susan enumerated.

  “Yes. They’re all Christmas plants, you see,” Kelly said, calmer now.

  “And the dressing?” Susan asked.

  “Oil and vinegar and …” Kelly hesitated.

  “And?” Susan prompted.

  “And a little dribble of Christmas tree preservative—you know, the stuff you buy to put in the tree stand to help the tree stay fresh. I had a bottle around the house and it said it was poisonous.” She shrugged. “I didn’t add too much. I was afraid it would taste awful.”

  “You’re talking about the salad you brought to Rebecca’s house before the party, aren’t you?” Kathleen asked, catching on.

  “Yes,” Kelly answered.

  Susan just nodded.

  “Can I see the paper?” Kathleen asked.

  Susan handed it to her, opening it to the relevant place. Kathleen read it quickly.

  “It says these things, these plants, might kill household pets if they were eaten, not people,” Kathleen said to Kelly, putting the paper down on the table between them.

  “Well, it says they’re poisonous,” Susan pointed out. “If enough of each plant was eaten …”

  “But wouldn’t the salad taste terrible?” Kathleen asked, thinking of the English yew mixed with tree preservative.

  “Probably,” Susan agreed.

  “I don’t know if anyone would have eaten the salad,” Kelly said. “I just made it and brought it over to Rebecca’s house.”

  “Well, what did you think would happen to it?” Kathleen asked.

  “I didn’t think about it at all,” Kelly answered. “I just did it.”

  Susan looked at her curiously. She was beginning to hav
e an idea of what had happened the night Evan died, but she didn’t see how it could possibly be true.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Henshaws’ party was a success.

  “Merry Christmas! I can’t decide which I like more, the eggnog or that punch of Jed’s. What does he call it again?”

  “Ivy League Punch,” Susan answered, swerving to keep the two large trays she was holding from being knocked from her hands by a guest too preoccupied with celebrating to notice what he was backing into. “It a secret recipe from his club in college.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to tell me what’s in it?” the questioner wailed.

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know. Just make sure someone else drives if you have more than two,” Susan suggested.

  “Not to worry. John Armstrong is driving. He’s allergic to evergreens, so this time of year is murder on his sinuses; he’s taking so many decongestants that he wouldn’t dare touch alcohol.”

  “Great.” Susan smiled and moved on to the kitchen, planning to replenish her buffet table. But she was to hear more about Jed’s Ivy League Punch before her errand was accomplished.

  “Susan!” Claire grabbed her arm tightly, stopping her progress. “I must talk to you immediately. Dr. Barr says you are poisoning all these people.”

  “What … ?” Susan glanced around to see how her guests were taking this loud accusation. “For God’s sake. Watch what you say. Let’s go to the kitchen!” Susan grabbed her mother-in-law’s arm and pushed her in that direction. “Now what are you talking about?” she asked, twirling around as the kitchen door swung closed behind them.

  “That awful punch that Jed makes every year. I was telling Dr. Barr some of the ingredients, and he says it’s the same thing as serving your guests poison.”

  “I—”

  “All that fruit and maple syrup and brandy …”

  “How do you know what’s in it?” Susan asked, putting the trays down on the counter and moving over to the table, where full platters awaited her.

  “You don’t believe that old story about the recipe being a secret from his school club, do you?”

  “I …” Susan seemed unable to complete a sentence.

  “He got that recipe from the first girl he dated after graduating from Yale, and she got it from some old Vermont cookbook of her mother’s. Is there any place else in the universe where people would put maple syrup in a drink?”

  “But …”

  “Dr. Barr says that the combination of all those fruit sugars and alcohol is lethal. I didn’t want to embarrass Jed by talking about it in front of his friends, but—”

  Susan took a deep breath and let her have it. “Claire, Dr. Barr is a guest in our home, not our family physician. I don’t expect to get medical advice at a party I’m giving—if it is real medical advice and not just some sort of health food garbage,” she added angrily.

  “Susan …” Now Claire appeared to be speechless.

  Good thing, Susan thought. But, like many unexpected blessings, it didn’t last for long. Claire inhaled and expelled the air noisily. “You are speaking of the man I love,” she announced, whirling around toward the door. “And” she paused on the threshold to add, “the man who is going to be your new father-in-law.” The door swung shut behind her.

  “Oh, no!” Susan slumped against the counter. How was she going to tell Jed? What was he going to say? To do? And could she keep him from finding out about this until after her party? “Oh, damn,” she added.

  “Pardon?”

  Susan turned around to find Kathleen right behind her. “Anything I can do?” she offered.

  “What?”

  “Are you okay?” Kathleen asked.

  “Fine. No, that’s not right,” Susan said, correcting herself. “I’m awful, and it’s going to get worse.”

  “What can I do?” Kathleen asked again.

  “Keep Claire and Dr. Barr away from Jed,” Susan suggested, thinking quickly.

  “What?” Kathleen looked at Susan curiously. “I came in here to offer to help with the food. What are you talking about?”

  “Claire just told me that she and Dr. Barr are going to get married—only that’s not the way she put it.”

  “What did she say?” Kathleen asked.

  “She said that I was going to have a new father-in-law. Kathleen, Jed will die.”

  “Well, he certainly won’t be happy about it,” Kathleen conceded. “I gather she hasn’t said anything to Jed.”

  “Not that I know of. I can’t believe that Jed would keep me in the dark about it. I think if he knew, I would know; we’d probably all hear the yelling.”

  “You heard us. I thought we were being so quiet!” Kathleen and Susan spun around to find Elizabeth Stevenson behind them, dabbing at her eyes with a linen handkerchief. “Oh, Susan, I’m so sorry. I never meant to have a fight with my husband at your party.”

  “You— We— Elizabeth. I didn’t hear you come in.” Susan stopped for a second to figure out what was going on. “We were talking about Jed and me arguing, not you and Derek. But what’s wrong? Anything we can help with?” Susan volunteered quickly, hoping to avoid questions about her own marital problems. And it worked.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Elizabeth flung herself down into a chair, moving aside a tray of vegetables and spinach dip so she would have more space. “Derek is in one of his moods—and you know what that can be like.”

  “No, I don’t,” Susan said honestly.

  “He criticizes everything I do. I wave my arms around too much; I forget people’s names and call them dear; I call them dear just because I like them; I don’t act blasé enough when people are telling me about their most recent purchases; I act too blasé when people tell me about their week at some western fat farm; I forget that it isn’t chic to eat a lot at parties; and, of course, I didn’t buy the Duchess the right Christmas present. I never do.”

  “Duchess?” Susan asked, thinking about a golden retriever she had known by that name.

  “My mother-in-law. Everyone calls her the Duchess.” Elizabeth picked up a raw mushroom and popped it in her mouth. “The witch is more like it.”

  “Christmas can be hard on families,” Susan muttered tactfully. “We were talking about it the other day, in fact.”

  “Hard! It’s impossible!” Elizabeth chose broccoli this time. “I thought it was difficult when we first got married—you know, adapting my family’s holiday traditions to fit Derek’s family’s.… I guess everyone goes through that. But it seems to me that it’s gotten worse over the years, not better.”

  “Worse?” Susan asked.

  “Well, at first I just tried to cook all his mother’s traditional recipes—and that was terrible because they all took forever. The Duchess has always had someone to cook for her, you see, so it didn’t matter if even the tiniest sugar cookie took hours to make. Derek expected that I would follow the same traditions—despite the fact that I didn’t have any help! And Christmas gifts were the worst. I would pick up some fabulous material on one of my buying trips and give that to her for a gift. She had this incredible dressmaker who used to make it up. That seemed to work for about four years and then, we were all opening our gifts after the traditional dinner at the house Derek was born in, and his mother told Derek that his wife must think she couldn’t pick out her own clothes. And I had given her the most fabulous piece of antique Chinese silk that was still in its box sitting under the tree, I almost died.”

  “And Derek?” Kathleen asked.

  “He was horrible. Just horrible. He actually apologized to her for the choice—and it really was museum quality—and he nagged at me all the way home. The next year he made a big point about how important it was that I buy his mother just the right present—not clothing or fabric, of course, but something personal.”

  “So?”

  “So I brought an antique tea set back from China—that was when Americans were first allowed into the country and some fabulou
s things were available.”

  “And?”

  “And she hated it. No, that’s not true. What she said was that she already had a tea set—a Coalsport one that had been in the family for generations. That she thought of the great traditions of the Stevensons every time she drank from it. You would have thought that I was robbing her life of all its traditions instead of giving her a gift.”

  “And things haven’t gotten a lot better since then,” Susan guessed.

  “True. It’s not just that I buy the wrong thing, it’s that I spend hours and hours, and days and days, trying to find just the right thing, and then she hates it.”

  “Well, if that’s the only thing wrong with the holidays,” Kathleen began, “why don’t you ask Derek to buy his mother’s present himself?”

  “Because in the Stevenson family, the gift buying is done by the wife,” Elizabeth answered unreasonably. “Besides, that’s not all that’s wrong with Christmas. For me, Christmas is just one long series of pits that I have to jump over instead of fall into.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kathleen said. Susan, who had known Elizabeth longer, thought that she did.

  “There are a lot of things. Take this party, for instance.”

  “This party?” Susan repeated.

  “Oh, no, Susan. You give a wonderful party,” Elizabeth said, protesting the unasked question. “It’s just what happens at parties around Hancock. Everyone knows how to act, what to do. I always seem to be making mistakes.”

  “Like not acting blasé enough,” Kathleen suggested, remembering how this conversation had begun.

  “Yes.”

  “When I first came to Hancock I never knew quite what to wear to parties, or the club,” Kathleen said, thinking that she was catching on.

  “Oh, clothing is my field. I don’t worry about that,” Elizabeth said. “In fact, I think Derek married me because he knew I would always wear the right thing. Too bad I wasn’t deaf and dumb as well—then he’d still think I’m perfect.”

  “Elizabeth …” Susan couldn’t think of anything else to say. What a sad feeling.

  Elizabeth Stevenson bit the top off a large blossom of cauliflower and chewed it thoughtfully. “Sometimes you can’t win, no matter how much you try.”