We Woof You a Deadly Christmas

by Laura Quinn

  Claire tiptoed over to the front door and surveyed the scene. “Not the landlord, but she does look familiar. I’ll see what she wants.”

  “I’ve got my phone out, ready to call the police,” Marti said. “Unless she is the police, or better, the FBI. Then I’m coming out to film Donald’s arrest.”

  Claire looked again at the woman outside. She wore a powder blue jogging suit under a half-buttoned coat, with one black loafer and one blue slipper. “I think the police tend to wear matching shoes,” Claire said to Marti as she opened the door, bracing herself for an icy blast. She shouted, “They’re closed today.”

  “I need to get in there,” the disheveled woman said, still thumping on the window.

  Marti poked her head out, unable to contain her curiosity. “You’re out of luck until Monday,” she shouted.

  “Come in, you’ll freeze to death out here,” Claire said. The woman’s face was scarlet red, whether from the cold or consternation, but Claire recognized her. “Would you like a cup of coffee? It is you, isn’t it Ms. Fischer?”

  “What…how do you know who I am?”

  “I’m Claire Noble and this is Marti Von Brandt. We went to NHHS. I read about your good news in the paper this morning. Congratulations on your retirement.”

  Marti went upstairs with the dogs, closing the barrier behind her. She changed into her green and white striped elf costume. Ms. Fischer followed Claire into the warm kitchen and accepted a cup of coffee. She stared at her host for several minutes before speaking, as if digging for a file within her brain. “You were the one who interviewed me for the paper when I first started, weren’t you?”

  “You have a good memory, considering the thousands of kids you’ve encountered.”

  Ms. Fischer sat back in the chair, still taking in the scene, still accessing data. “You look different now, but I’ve always been good with even the tiniest details. At least I usually am,” she said, realigning the buttons on her coat. “I ran out of the house as soon as my neighbor told me where the shop was. I can’t believe they aren’t open. They have no right to keep it.”

  “Hello, Ms. Fischer. Do you remember me?” Marti asked.

  “You’re an adult now, call me Ruth,” she said. “You started a protest for larger portions of something.”

  “Pizza. It probably won’t surprise you, but I’m an attorney now. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, I don’t want to do press charges or anything, but I do want my property back. My neighbor was feeding my cats while I was out, and for some reason thought it would be a great idea to enter it into some contest. She gave me the shop’s number and I called and left several messages late last night, with no response. That’s why I raced over here this morning, to get it back before they go and sell it.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Prescott will straighten everything out for you,” Claire said.

  “Maybe you’ll win a prize,” Marti suggested.

  “I just want it back. I’m trying to start my new life and…” She took a deep breath, as if to yell, but began to cry. “I know Betty meant well. It isn’t the prettiest thing ever, but it’s an heirloom and absolutely priceless to me.”

  Claire walked back into the office and returned with a box of tissues and the phone. “I’ll try calling the Prescotts at home. I’m sure they’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.”

  Claire dialed the emergency contact number she had on file and handed the ringing phone to the former lunch lady.

  “Hello,” Ruth said, turning to blow her nose. Marti and Claire walked away to give her privacy. Shortly afterwards, the phone was placed on the counter. She blew her nose again, thanked her hosts, and left.

  “That was weird, wasn’t it?” Claire asked when the coast was clear.

  “It sure was. What did she mean about starting a new life?” Marti asked.

  “She’s retiring, if you can believe it.”

  “Imagine working as a lunch lady all those years, what a thankless job.”

  “But she doesn’t seem that old, does she? I could swear she was only a few years older than us when she started that job.”

  “Hey, why is the front door open?” Emma asked as she walked in. “I’m not late, am I? It was way before eleven when I got here, and I swear I just spent a few minutes on Snapchat.”

  “No, we had an early visitor,” Claire said.

  Marti took the chance to query the teen. “It was Ms. Fischer from your school. How old is she?”

  “I don’t know. In her seventies maybe?”

  “Oh, she’s not nearly that old,” Marti said. “She isn’t that much older than we are.”

  Claire steered her young employee, “I’m sure you only thought that because she’s retiring, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Don’t you have to be seventy to retire?” Emma took the hint.

  “Just about,” Claire said. “That’s why it seems so strange that she’s eligible to retire already.”

  “Just to clarify, that’s because we’re decades away from seventy,” Marti added.

  “Obvs,” Emma said. “Well, she’s definitely retiring. We all have to go to an assembly tomorrow because of it. Harry even has to re-shoot some stupid video about how her great nutrition fueled them to the championships. They already did it last month, but suddenly someone decided it didn’t look right. So, the whole team has to drive all around town tonight.”

  “Why don’t they film it in the gym?” Marti asked.

  “Coach Bishop thought it would be a great idea to get selvies—I came up with that name myself for selfie videos—around town to give it a home-town feel. They decided that filming at night with all the holiday lights would make it look festive. Everyone has to pick at least two different locations that have a personal connection. So lame!”

  Emma said her boyfriend should pose shirtless, offering to show pictures to prove her point. Claire ushered her to the back to pre-package boxes of treats for impulse buys at the register while she and Marti prepared for the Santa Paws photos. Upstairs, a festive North Pole set dazzled them, complete with a candy cane lane leading to Santa’s paw-printed throne. The designer and photographer were a talented pair from Columbia College, one studying photography and the other a theater major. The latter took on the role of Santa Paws with gusto, guaranteeing delighted customers and plenty of donations for the pet shelters. Head elf Marti changed into her green-and-white striped costume, with bells from head to toe.

  Baron helped his new friends by posing for the first photo, donning a red scarf around his furry neck. With everything set upstairs, Claire sent the young pair to the coffee shop for a break before the chaos began.

  Marti’s elf bells rang as she descended the stairs, then stopped to watch the foot traffic outside. “Someone else just walked up next door. She was dragging a huge bronze unicorn on a sled. Everyone watched as the woman read the closed sign and gave a holiday two-finger salute.

  “They really should be open today,” Claire said. “The contest is bringing a lot of people.”

  “I still say you should have charged them for your idea.”

  “It only took a few minutes to brainstorm. Besides, I feel sorry for Mrs. Prescott.”

  “So do I. Maybe I should offer my help with drafting divorce papers,” the attorney offered.

  “I’m sure she’ll never leave him. She’s the type who will stand by him, no matter what.”

  Marti grinned and speculated, “Until she snaps and clobbers him with one of those brass candlesticks.”

  “Wearing her pearls? That would be a sight! Anyway, I think she would be the arsenic and lace type, tastefully traditional to the end.”

  “Less evidence to conceal too,” Marti agreed. She practiced walking in the belled slippers, looking about as graceful as a scuba diver walking on sand.

  “All the more reason for me to help improve their business, to avoid her being featured on one of those murderous wives shows. It must be stressful having s
o few customers, I don’t know how they can afford to stay open.”

  “My guess is an illegitimate side business. I spied the old fool in back again this morning, while I was waiting for you. He was sitting in his Cadillac, wearing those ridiculous sunglasses…”

  “Vintage Gucci,” Claire interrupted. “I accidentally opened the box when it was misdelivered here.”

  “Figures. Anyway, I saw him trading an unusually long box for a thick packet, which was obviously stacks of cash. That’s the third time I’ve witnessed his back-door deals in the last month. Really makes you wonder what he’s selling.”

  “Barbara made me promise to restrict the Mystery Mavens to fictional investigating. So did Officer Conners, remember?”

  Marti harrumphed. “Someone needs to look into this. Remember those packages that were misdelivered here last month? They were from South Africa. What sort of customer would send an antique all that way? It’s not like he’s Sotheby’s. And don’t you think it’s strange that so many are misdelivered?”

  “I’ve never actually checked the address, just the name.” Claire’s eyes widened at the realization, “That means his signature isn’t tied to them.”

  “Mark my words, it’s something illicit.”

  “That’s what Zac said last night.”

  “Maybe I should send in one of my interns to investigate. It wouldn’t hurt to have something on him the next time an ‘anonymous’ complaint is lodged against you.”

  “That’s true,” Claire agreed. “He’ll probably develop a nut allergy next, demanding we stop making anything with peanut butter, our top flavor.”

  “What is Mr. Snips saying now?” Emma asked, having finished her project in the back. “Harry and I saw him in the back the other day, and he was giving us serious side-eye.”

  The dog clock barked opening time, and the shop was soon filled with a mix of regulars, people interested in adopting, and a few disappointed customers carrying antiques.

  While Claire was refilling the apple cider station behind the faux fireplace in the café, a blonde woman sat at a table in the corner with a highly-polished, inlaid maple silverware chest. Claire recognized her from town, but didn’t know her name. Tears streamed down the woman’s face and her voice choked as she spoke on her phone. Claire overheard snippets of the conversation as she debated whether she should stay out of sight or reveal herself, and embarrass the woman. “You’ve got to stop calling me…I told you I’ll pay you as soon as I get the cash...Arnold is starting to ask questions…”

  A customer and her Bull Mastiff walked by, providing cover for Claire to slip away, unnoticed. When she was sure the call was ending, Claire walked towards the upset woman with a bottle of water and a box of tissues. Dabbing at her eyes, the woman asked when the antique store would open and if she knew if they were buying items outright or taking them on commission. Before Claire could answer, a blood-curdling scream jerked her away.

  “Wahhhhhhhhhhh,” the piercing wail intensified as Claire ran up the stairs. “Mommy, I want Benny to be my brother.”

  The boy’s frazzled mother reminded the shelter volunteer, “We did see him first.”

  “Yes, but you walked away. I’m already filling out the adoption papers for Benjamin,” the other man countered.

  “Only because Billy wanted to get a treat for the dog,” she said, showing the package of cookies she had just purchased.

  Marti stepped in to mediate the dispute, allowing Claire to return to comfort the distraught blonde. When she returned, the woman and the heavy wooden box were gone. She didn’t have time to look for her, though, as another dispute broke out, this time over the last holiday hedgehog. Then, she was on cleanup duty upstairs after an excited lab mistook Santa’s red pants for a fire hydrant. She returned just in time to meet Ian MacStuart and his Scottie for their weekly treat replenishment. The new doggie boot display attracted his attention and Emma helped him fasten the Velcro straps on the good-natured dog’s paws, while extolling the benefits. He chose a cherry-red set and a new plaid scarf to match.

  “WGN said it’s supposed to snow tonight; we don’t want the inclement weather to hinder our walkies,” Ian said.

  Another customer said, “I shouldn’t worry. Those forecasters are always wrong.”

  “My dear Mary used to predict the snowstorms perfectly. She said she could feel a slight tickle in her knees, like Suzy Snowflake tum-tum-tumbling down.” He stopped his singing as suddenly as he started. “Oh, that’s well before your time, Emma.”

  “My mom plays that cartoon every year,” Emma said. “She said she stood in line for two hours to get the free DVD, and ended up buying a new bedroom set for the guesthouse.”

  “I remember that; it was while I was in New York,” Claire said. “Walter E. Smithe was giving the videos away, but someone refused to get one for me.”

  “I didn’t think you were serious,” Marti said. She changed the subject by focusing on the bonnie white dog and her new wardrobe.

  “That scarf is hand-made by Heather,” Claire said, suddenly inspired to fix up the widower. “She’s from Aberdeen, come to think of it. How appropriate for a Scottie’s wardrobe. Heather’s late-husband met her while on a golfing pilgrimage and charmed her into moving here.”

  “Aberdeen? That’s not far from Dundee, where my mother’s family is from.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Claire said, feigning innocence. “You’ve been tracing your ancestry. Maybe Heather could help connect you to some resources. She’ll be here Friday. I’ll introduce you.”

  “That’s very thoughtful, Claire. I’ll bring my notes with me.”

  “Tis the season,” the matchmaker said, already planning a summer wedding.

  The oblivious bachelor left as Claude arrived to pick up Lana’s order. He dropped off an envelope to the rescue group, but politely declined a photo with Santa. By three o’clock, the donation jar was full and three dogs had been tentatively adopted. Marti helped the group pack up and load up their cars before leaving to drive her furry kids home. As news of the possible snowstorm intensified, customers dwindled and Claire let Emma leave early.

  With the shop suddenly silent, Claire took the opportunity to restock the bakery cases. She was starting to put out new breed-specific ornaments, when Marti called.

  “It’s past six o’clock,” Marti said. “I’m calling to make sure you’re on your way.”

  “Yes, I’m in the car now. The traffic is terrible.”

  “You’re a terrible liar. Just lock up and go. You can finish whatever you’re doing tomorrow.”

  “Okay, okay. Give me a half-hour to take Baron home and change. I hope we don’t get stuck in a blizzard.”

  “It’s going to be fine; Bob said his forecaster is predicting two inches tops. Now get going.”

  Before leaving, Claire sprinkled the new dog-safe salt on the sidewalk in front and back, just in case. It didn’t look like a storm was rising, but she had learned to expect the unexpected when it came to Chicago’s notorious weather.

  Taking a shortcut through a private road and two alleys allowed Claire to reach the Turkish restaurant ten minutes after she left home. The hostess showed her to the table, where Marti lounged on tangerine and gold cushions, a gingerbread martini in hand.

  “I ordered one for you too,” she said. “Come on down.”

  Deciding on moussaka and a kebab plate, the pair were soon chatting away, reviewing everything from the potential adoptions, to current events, to Marti’s latest cases. They considered how Ruth Fischer could retire so early. Claire decided she must be the anonymous mega lottery winner, announced a few weeks earlier. Marti argued that any sane person would leave that job as soon as she won, especially with winter looming.

  As their dessert arrived, so did Zelda, the restaurant’s visiting psychic from Ankara. Marti engaged the woman for a reading and the friends gulped down their cups of Turkish coffee, leaving just a few drops, as instructed. Zelda swirled Marti’s cup round and r
ound, chanting softly and putting herself into a trance. When she stopped, her eyes opened and focused on the bottom of the cup. She did not speak for several long moments as her grey eyes maintained their gaze at the pattern of the residual coffee grounds. Then, her long onyx eyelashes fluttered dramatically and she whispered names into the air. Marti and Claire leaned in closely to hear.

  “You must continue in your noble quest,” she said, her voice gradually gaining strength. “You are a strong woman, but your heart yearns. Look to close shores for your soul mate. You have kissed many, how do you say, croaks, to find your prince.”

  Marti and Claire struggled not to laugh, but failed. “I think you mean frogs,” Claire offered. Marti thought snakes was more appropriate, given her history.

  Zelda laughed herself, but regained her composure as she reached over for Claire’s cup. Again, she began her chanting trance as she swirled the cup. Once the grounds settled, she opened her eyes to peer into the future. Zelda jumped back and the cup smashed to the tile floor. Her steel eyes flickered as she returned to the table and stared at Claire.

  “You have come a long way from your past, but it looms near. Beware, beware!”

  Zelda ran off the floor, and Claire sat stunned, her face ghostly pale.

  Marti put her arm around her friend. “How about another martini?”

  “No, I think I’ll have some water.” She drank her glass, then Marti’s. The waitress, who had witnessed the encounter, brought a pot of chamomile tea.

  “You know,” Marti said, “they have to add some drama to these readings or patrons would get bored.”

  “Yes, that’s all it is. For entertainment purposes only, right?” Claire said, retracting fingernails from her reddened palms. “It’s weird that she used my last name with your prediction.”

  “Someone probably told her who you are and she ran with it.”

  “Yes, that’s probably it,” Claire said, looking at the coffee-stained tile.

  “Well, just in case mine might be true, I better buy extra lipstick for all my frog kissing,” Marti said, trying to lighten the mood.