Christmas Card Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Bettina’s table had been extended with a leaf to accommodate all the guests. Besides Pamela and Penny, Wilfred Jr. and his wife Maxie were there with their two little boys, and the Frasers’ other son, Warren, was there with his wife Greta and their daughter Morgan. The two little boys sat on chairs, but had been elevated to dining level with pillows, and Morgan sat in a high chair that had served Wilfred Jr. and Warren years earlier.

  Now the main course had been cleared away, as well as the salad that had followed—radicchio with pecans and blue cheese—and the last of the Pinot Noir had been poured into the Swedish crystal wineglasses.

  “I think it’s my turn to do something useful,” Pamela said as she rose to her feet. She had been chatting across the table with Greta about the virtues of natural fabrics and the do-it-yourself ethos after Greta had admired her sweater. It was the ruby-red tunic-sweater that came out only on festive occasions, given that it featured a—to Pamela—daring and illogical feature: cutouts revealing bare shoulders. Greta herself was in a garment that seemed to be made of hemp, a fashion choice in keeping with her unstyled hair and face untouched by cosmetics.

  As she talked to Greta, she’d been half overhearing Penny’s conversation with Warren, about Penny’s impressions of Boston.

  “The cake?” At the end of the table, Bettina rose to her feet as well.

  The two friends headed to the kitchen together. Once there, Bettina busied herself with coffee preparation, and Pamela gently lifted the foil that had protected the cake on its trip across the street.

  Bettina paused in the midst of scooping ground coffee into her carafe’s filter cone. “Ohhh!” she gasped. “That is magnificent! ”

  The cake was a simple creation, but the layered effect, with three shades of brown—each evoking a different form of chocolate—gave it glamour suitable for a party. The first layer, the darkest, was a dense flourless cake. The second was a truffle-like mousse, not as dark, but still rich-looking and lustrous with heavy cream. The third was scarcely a layer, just a sprinkling of unsweetened cocoa powder whose dusky reddish color made the surface of the cake seem to glow.

  Pamela cut the cake into narrow slices and transferred each one to a dessert plate, the dark triangles making for dramatic geometry against the sage-green. She delivered the plates, amid exclamations of delight, as Bettina delivered coffee.

  The cake lived up to its appearance, everyone agreed, and Pamela tried to experience it not as its creator, but simply as a fellow diner. The mousse layer yielded easily in the mouth, and its flavor suggested a chocolate truffle. The cake layer mimicked the texture of a brownie. And the cocoa powder that dusted the top gave each bite an appealing hint of bitterness.

  When the plates were empty but for streaks of chocolate and the coffee cups had been tipped for the last drops, Wilfred Jr. and Maxie gathered up their yawning little boys, wished everyone “Merry Christmas,” and headed back to their own house. Greta carried Morgan up the stairs, and on her return retreated to the kitchen to help Warren with the cleanup.

  Wilfred led the way to the living room then, with Bettina following him and taking Pamela’s and Penny’s hands to draw them along beside her. Wilfred added a log to the fire as Bettina settled Pamela and Penny in the armchairs and took a seat on the sofa. Wilfred joined her, beaming with pleasure at the success of the meal. He looked handsome in the Nordic-style sweater, finally completed, that had been Bettina’s gift to him.

  “I think there are some unopened gifts still under the tree,” Wilfred said with a smile that hinted at surprises, “and maybe elsewhere as well.”

  “You do yours first.” Penny jumped up. In a moment she was offering a gaily wrapped package to Wilfred and Bettina. “You have to both open it together,” she said, “because it’s for both of you.”

  Wilfred obediently untied the ribbon and handed the package to Bettina for the paper removal. Bettina peeled the paper away to reveal the back of a stretched canvas. Then she turned it over and uttered a squeal of joy.

  “This is too, too amazing!” she cooed. “However did you do this?”

  She held it up for Pamela to see, though Pamela had known all the time what the wrapping paper hid.

  The Frasers lived in the oldest house on Orchard Street, a Dutch Colonial that dated from the era before Arborville even became Arborville. Their modern kitchen was a recent addition, but from the front their house still resembled the original structure. Penny had made a painting of their house as it might have looked when it was the only house on the street, surrounded by the apple orchard that had provided a livelihood for its owners and later had given the street its name.

  Penny opened her gift from the Frasers next. The small box had implied a gift of jewelry, and she wasn’t disappointed. She lifted the lid to find a delicate silver disk dangling from a delicate silver chain. Tiny pearls and a tiny diamond were arranged on the disk to form a curious symbol.

  “It’s your astrological sign,” Bettina explained. “Taurus.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Penny undid the clasp and Pamela helped her refasten it at the back of her neck. The disk glowed against the red fabric of her dress, the flirty dress that she’d had since high school and that still complemented her lively beauty.

  Then she was on her feet again, delivering a long, skinny package to Wilfred, which turned out to contain a chef’s knife, and then a boxy package to Bettina.

  “From the craft show Fiber Craft cosponsored in the city last fall,” Pamela explained as Bettina lifted a glass bowl from a nest of tissue. The bowl was a curious free-form shape, flaring at the top, with the color shading downward from intense turquoise to the red-gold hue of sunset.

  “Oh!” Bettina squealed again. “You know how much I love things like this. Thank you so much!”

  Wilfred stood up now, leaning on the arms of his chair as he rose. “No more presents under the tree,” he observed with a Santa-like twinkle in his eye, “but . . .” He disappeared through the arch that led to the dining room, and the kitchen beyond. They heard his cheery greeting as he saluted Warren and Greta and then there was silence.

  “You must close your eyes, Pamela,” Bettina said. “And don’t open them until I say so.”

  Pamela waited, eyes obediently closed, listening to the fire crackle, then to the sound of Wilfred’s feet coming closer, finally to a thump on the floor near the tree and a satisfied grunt.

  “Okay!” Bettina and Wilfred sang in unison.

  Pamela opened her eyes—and there under the Christmas tree was a second cat climber, identical to the first except that the carpet covering the largest post and the platforms was dark blue instead of dark green.

  Now she was the one to squeal, and Penny squealed too.

  “A cat climber of my own!” Pamela exclaimed. “I can’t think of a nicer present.”

  Later, Pamela, Penny, Wilfred, and Bettina stood on the Frasers’ porch. The snowless yard detracted not one bit from their holiday spirit.

  “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” they all wished one another.

  And then Wilfred carried the cat climber across the street and set it next to Pamela’s Christmas tree.

  Chapter Ten

  Penny didn’t think live music at the Skycrest Lounge on Route 46 sounded very appealing—and besides, she’d been invited to a party at the house that Aaron shared with some of his Wendelstaff College friends.

  Route 46 formed the southern border of Haversack. Besides the Skycrest and other motels, anyone driving along it would pass used-car dealerships, fast-food outlets, and the offices of payday moneylenders, among other enterprises.

  From behind the wheel of his ancient but lovingly cared-for Mercedes, Wilfred advised, “Keep a sharp eye out. Traffic’s moving fast and I’ll need some warning to slow down when we come to it.”

  “Slow down now!” Bettina exclaimed, leaning forward in the passenger seat. “It’s right here.”

  The Skycrest occupied a large expanse of asphalt, much of it take
n up by vehicles that ranged from pickup trucks to sporty two-seaters, all illuminated by bright lights on tall poles. The motel—long wings with doors spaced at intervals—stretched out on either side of the office, labeled in red neon OFFICE, and the lounge, labeled in red neon LOUNGE.

  Wilfred had to park some distance from the entrance to the lounge, and as they approached the entrance, they passed a small cluster of people at the end of the concrete apron that ran across the front of the office-lounge complex. Drifts of smoke rose from their midst, and cigarette butts were scattered at their feet, despite the metal receptacle clearly intended for their disposal.

  Wilfred pulled open a heavy glass door and they entered a dim room furnished with a few armchairs and large plastic plants. A carpet patterned with swirling designs in maroon, red, and purple covered the floor. Straight ahead, double doors opened into an even dimmer room from which came the sound of music, but not live music.

  As they advanced toward the double doors, they dodged around a few people headed in the other direction. A man in a fringed leather jacket was slipping a cigarette from a pack as he chatted, laughing, with a youngish woman. She paused for a moment to rearrange a dramatic poncho, black mohair, that hung to her knees, where her sleek black boots began. A second woman in a capacious leopard-print coat already had her cigarette between her lips.

  The band was on a break, and the music was coming from the PA system. Most of the tables were filled, with people of various ages—likely fans of live music who didn’t want to travel to the city to hear it, as well as motel guests looking to fill an evening on the road.

  Wilfred spotted a free table near the far wall. They threaded their way toward it and settled onto none-too-comfortable wooden chairs. At the next table a raucous crowd of seven or eight people had squeezed themselves around a table intended for four. The table was crowded with glasses and beer pitchers, some full and some empty.

  “Reminds me of my youth,” Wilfred said, scanning the crowd and tapping his feet in time to the Rolling Stones song that had just come on. “Beer, ladies?” he inquired as a young woman dressed all in black approached from the bar at one end of the room.

  “A small one,” Bettina said, and Pamela nodded.

  The stage where the band performed was at the other end of the room, unoccupied now but for instruments, huge amplifiers, and an impressive mother-of-pearl drum kit trimmed with gleaming chrome.

  Bettina had partially risen from her chair and was scanning the crowd. “That’s him!” she said suddenly, nudging Pamela. “Look, right there.” She directed a finger toward a table at the edge of the stage. Three faces were visible, and the back of a head covered with dark hair. Then the head turned. A profile was visible.

  “He’s turning!” Bettina hissed. “Watch!”

  The owner of the head halfway rose and swiveled, apparently looking toward the bar.

  It was Mack Drayton, no question. The assertive nose and the dark brows gave his face a glamour that was almost sinister. He raised an arm in a commanding gesture and his lips parted in a smile that was the facial equivalent of a swagger. A moment later, a black-clad server neared his table.

  Their own beer arrived then. Wilfred raised his glass in a toast: “To the new year!” he said, and took a long swallow. Bettina sipped at her beer for a few minutes, as did Pamela. Then Bettina pushed her chair back from the table and said, “I’ll go see what I can find out.”

  “How?” Pamela was startled. It was true they’d come to the Skycrest Lounge to discover whether Mack Drayton had an alibi for the night Karma was killed. However, they hadn’t talked about what their strategy would be.

  Bettina was on her feet. “Oh, I’m not going to talk to him,” she said, and began to work her way toward the stage. She had dressed for the occasion in a bright orange jumpsuit that stood out even in the dim light of the Skycrest Lounge, along with dangly earrings featuring large faceted stones.

  * * *

  The Mackinations seemed a varied lot. The other three people sitting at the band table were a very young man with a mop of blond curls, a sturdy man of indeterminate age with a shaved head, and a man who could have been Wilfred’s double, complete with well-trimmed white hair.

  Pamela watched as Bettina stooped toward the white-haired man. He looked up, and his sudden grin suggested she had offered a compliment. (How? Pamela wondered. We just got here and we don’t even know who plays what, aside from Mack.)

  But Bettina had her ways. The white-haired man stood and rearranged a few of the empty chairs jumbled near the table. Bettina was soon sitting at his side, alternately talking and listening, her earrings catching the light as they swayed.

  Pamela was focused on the scene playing out near the stage, which had just been joined by additional characters. The smokers had returned and were crowding into the remaining empty chairs near the band table. Meanwhile, the band members were vacating their own chairs.

  “I’m having fun,” Wilfred commented, “even just sitting here taking in the scene.” He was on his second beer. Pamela leaned close, straining to hear. The people at the neighboring table were becoming more and more raucous, the women clustered at one end even more so than the men.

  “Amazing she left the room long enough for a smoke, with so many women in here tonight,” a female voice crowed.

  “Finders keepers . . . losers weepers,” another female voice responded, singing the words like a lilting tune. “What goes around comes around, and goes around, and comes around . . .”

  Up on the stage, the band members took their places. The young man with the mop of blond curls picked up the red guitar, and the sturdy man with the shaved head picked up the bass. Mack settled in behind the impressive drum kit, and the man who looked like Wilfred took a seat at the keyboard.

  The people at the next table quieted down. The PA cut out then and, in the sudden silence, Pamela heard one of them say, “Isn’t that what they call karma?” The prolonged drumroll that introduced the first song drowned out the burst of laughter.

  The Mackinations played songs in a jazz-rock sort of style, all instrumentals. The set lasted about forty minutes. Midway through, Bettina rejoined them, and Pamela studied her face for a sign that she had something to report.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she shouted over the amplified music.

  * * *

  Their ears were ringing as they traversed the carpet with the swirling designs and stepped out onto the concrete apron.

  “Well?” Pamela inquired once they were outside.

  “Nothing definitive.” Bettina shook her head sadly. She smiled then. “Though I thought Danny was a pretty good keyboard player, and he hopes I’ll come back again.”

  “Dear wife”—Wilfred wrapped an arm around Bettina’s shoulders—“of course he does. You were the most beautiful woman in the Skycrest Lounge tonight.”

  “Anything undefinitive?” Pamela asked. They were on the asphalt now, nearing Wilfred’s car.

  “The Mackinations only play Saturdays and Sundays,” Bettina said. “But Danny said they all play with other bands too, and Mack might have had a gig a week ago yesterday. But then again, he might not have.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was Sunday morning. The house still smelled pleasantly of coffee and toast, the Christmas tree lights were on, and from the stereo came the robust strains of “We Three Kings.” Ginger was enjoying the scratching post component of the cat climber, while Catrina lounged on the topmost platform, her tail dangling over the edge. Pamela sat on the sofa, paging through the cookbook that her mother had sent. She had just learned that the characteristic New Jersey dessert was cannoli with ricotta filling.

  It was pleasant to enjoy Christmas things with the hubbub of shopping, wrapping, baking, and decorating in the past. She raised her eyes from the cookbook to the tree—so many memories evoked by the ornaments she had collected over the years. Some, the tag sale finds, had doubtless come to her with memories attached, though she would never
know what they had meant to their previous owners.

  Others were things she and Michael Paterson had brought home from trips—the sparkly pretzel from Milwaukee, the Mardi Gras mask from New Orleans, the carved wooden fish from a weekend at the Jersey Shore. And some were new, like the tiny sweater, mitten, and stocking that Penny had bought at the Knit and Nibble table, their cheerful colors standing out against the dark green of the tree. But contemplating the hand-knit ornaments shattered her tranquility. Poor Sorrel Wollcott, charged with murder, and Pamela and Bettina had really made no progress at all in discovering who was actually responsible for Karma’s death.

  She stared at the ornaments, harder. One of Sorrel’s tiny sweaters was found at the crime scene, yes, but Sorrel had explained how that happened. Something else was found at the crime scene too, something . . .

  Pamela tossed the cookbook aside and jumped up. Without even grabbing a jacket, she dashed across the street to ring Bettina’s doorbell, pushing the button again and again in her excitement.

  “What on earth?” Bettina exclaimed as the door swung back. The cheer that normally softened her features had fled. “What’s wrong? Did something happen to Penny?” She grabbed Pamela’s arm and pulled her over the threshold.

  “We have to go back to the Skycrest tonight.” Pamela felt herself panting, trying to breathe. She’d been holding her breath probably since the moment she stared at Sorrel’s ornaments and recalled her own visit to the back of the Christmas tree lot.

  She finally succeeded in emptying her lungs and filling them with a fresh breath that enabled her to explain to Bettina what she had figured out.