’TIS THE SEASON
TO BE MURDERED
Valerie Wolzien
© Valerie Wolzien 1994
Valerie Wolzien has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1994 by Ballantine Books.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
For Margaret Cooper, Connie DeMott, and Miriam Rinn with thanks for allowing me to be a part of the best writing group ever.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
ONE
Jed Henshaw was admiring his wife through half-closed eyes. Candles on the mantel, logs blazing in the fireplace, and hundreds of sparkling Christmas-tree lights made the emerald earrings he’d given her that morning twinkle and shine as she … “What exactly are you doing?” he asked, suddenly puzzled by her behavior. “You can’t still be wrapping presents—Christmas is over.”
Susan’s hair fell over the earrings as she glanced at her wrist. “Not for thirty-seven minutes, it’s not. Besides, I finished wrapping presents about this time last night. I’m just sorting wrapping paper.”
“Hon, my mother doesn’t even save used paper anymore.”
“I said sorting, not saving. For recycling. I know the tissue and glossy papers go in the recycling bin, but the metallic is garbage. I suppose this tissue with tiny stars should be thrown away—I think they’re plastic.” Unaccustomed to her new bifocals, she squinted at the gaudy sheets. “And I have no idea what this bag is made out of … Is it Mylar plastic, or maybe aluminum?” She waited a few minutes before continuing. “Jed, are you listening to me?”
A slight snore answered her question.
She tried again, a little louder. “Jed?”
“I think I had too much to eat,” Jed mumbled, and buried his head under a needlepoint pillow shaped like an angel.
More like too much wine, eggnog, and brandy, but Susan kept the thought to herself. She leaned back against the coffee table and examined the messy room. She loved every minute of Christmas, from the champagne that she and her husband shared at midnight on Christmas Eve to the inevitable chaos left behind by opening presents and the daylong entertaining of family, friends, and neighbors. But now, their guests had gone home, and her children were busy. Chad, sixteen, was upstairs, duplicating new rock cassettes that he would exchange for friends’ copies of their new acquisitions. Chrissy, home from her freshman year at college, was out with old high-school classmates.
Susan, deciding to let her husband sleep, gave up and stuffed the piles of wrapping paper under the couch. She seemed to hear a pitcher of eggnog calling her from the refrigerator. Or was it fruitcake? Or that Kentucky-bourbon cake Kathleen had brought to dinner? Maybe the Jamaican black cake she had made for the first time this year?
She should have a small slice of each one she decided, entering her kitchen. She deserved the calories. She had to clean up this mess. And it would make her task just that much easier if she finished off this plate of pecan crescents. As she reached out her hand, a large open mouth appeared from under the table.
“Clue!” Susan recognized the year-old golden retriever bitch that had been lurking nearby since Susan began her annual baking binge the day after Thanksgiving. “Haven’t you had enough? You’re going to need to go on a diet!” She patted her puppy on the head, knowing that, in this case, she was the pot calling the kettle black.
She shared the last few cookies on the plate with Clue, and then got down to work. She filled the sink with soapy water and washed her grandmother’s cut-glass goblets. They dried on a linen towel while she emptied and refilled the dishwasher. The three-tiered cake plate was a cinch for her and Clue to empty, but a pain to wash, and she was startled when her daughter appeared in the room.
“Chrissy! I had no idea you were home!” Susan tightened her grip on the slippery crystal.
Clue was jumping around and tearing at Chrissy’s new, purple suede boots. The pretty girl knelt down and rubbed the animal behind the ears and tossed an envelope to her mother at the same time.
“I found this on the floor of the front hall. It looks like someone stepped on it. The name is a little hard to recognize, but it says something Henshaw. Maybe a late Christmas card.”
Susan glanced at the writing and didn’t recognize it. “I’ll open it later. It’s probably from a neighbor. An invitation that someone had a child deliver. It’ll wait until my hands are dry.” She smiled at her daughter. “How was your evening?”
“Super. Has anyone fed this animal tonight?” Chrissy asked, offering a glazed apricot to Clue.
“People have been feeding her all day long. Clue’s breakfast was a candy cane stolen from the Christmas tree; her brunch was some gingerbread cookies and a cup of eggnog that I left too close to the edge of the table; for lunch she had more than a taste of everything you and I and everyone else had, from turkey to plum pudding; and tonight, one of Chad’s friends brought over a box of gourmet dog treats for her, and she consumed it, box and all—I suppose that was her dinner. And she’s still begging. I don’t know where she puts it all.”
“In this fat stomach,” Chrissy said, patting the animal’s belly. “I’m thirsty. Is there any seltzer in the refrig’?”
“Probably,” Susan muttered, wondering what was clanking against the wall of her dishwasher. She hoped it wasn’t something fragile.
Chrissy sliced cold turkey to accompany the seltzer. Susan had boned the bird and stuffed it with an exotic dressing of chestnuts, fruit, and Grand Marnier. She put down the plate she was drying and joined her daughter. Like many cooks, she enjoyed the leftovers more than the original meal itself.
“How did you think the day went?” she asked her daughter.
“You mean Mrs. Davies and Mrs. Cutler, don’t you?”
Susan frowned. “Do you think it was a mistake to invite them? They didn’t seem to have much fun.” Susan always included friends and neighbors who were going to be spending the holidays alone when she planned the family’s Christmas dinner. This year Gillian Davies and Alexis Cutler had been their guests. Both women were recently single; both were mothers spending the holiday alone for the first time; and both lived on the same street. Aside from that, they had little in common that Susan could find. Except that they were giving parties the same evening. Susan had received invitations to both.
“They’re rather stressed-out, aren’t they?” Chrissy answered her question. “That’s sometimes a symptom of living in the suburbs. I think an urban lifestyle can be much healthier, don’t you?”
Susan had momentarily forgotten that her lovely daughter had gone off to college a charming innocent only to return home, less than three months later, a jaded sophisticate. Just goes to show what eleven thousand dollars put in the right place can do, Susan thought, hiding a smile. “It’s certainly difficult to be a single mother in the suburbs,” she said, thinking that she was agreeing with her daughter.
“But that’s the point, isn’t it?” Chrissy asked. “They were fine as long as they were mothers; the problems started when their kids left home. Empty nest. Like
you’ll be when Chad leaves for college in two years. But you’ll have Dad, of course. So it will be easier for you.”
“Did you think either of them had a good time?”
“They’re a little competitive, aren’t they?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“The way they were trying to prove what good mothers they were with Bananas. And talking about how happy they are these days—I thought they protested just a little too much, didn’t you?”
Happily for Susan, who didn’t want to ruin her holiday mood by gossiping about neighbors, Chrissy immediately lost interest in the topic. “Have you tried out your Christmas gift yet?” the girl asked, picking at a drumstick with her fingers. “There’s a packet of decaf beans with it.”
Susan started guiltily. Chrissy and Chad had gotten together and very generously given their mother a new, imported cappuccino machine this morning. Susan adored good coffee—her old machine had died recently—and she had planned to express her appreciation by starting to use this gift immediately after dinner. But she’d forgotten.
Dinner had been a little chaotic. As usual, Kathleen and Jerry Gordon had come over, bringing their preschool son with them. As much fun as it was to have a small child around at Christmas, Bananas, overexcited by the day, had kept his parents (both exhausted after a late night spent constructing a very complex HO train set) as well as Alexis and Gillian busy trying to assemble Lego versions of farm equipment, castles, and boats. He had spilled apple juice on the cashmere sweater that was a present to Chrissy from her grandmother, had burst into tears when asked to use his fork rather than his fingers to eat mashed potatoes, and when left alone, had fallen asleep on the floor under the Christmas tree, with Clue obligingly serving as his pillow.
Susan had thought about the cappuccino then, but the doorbell had rung, and two couples they’d known for years had appeared, bearing gifts and a large bottle of brandy. Clue, who insisted on greeting all the Henshaws’ guests, had leapt up; Bananas’s head had hit the floor; and by the time everyone was settled in front of the fire with a balloon glass of the brandy, Susan had completely forgotten that she intended to use her children’s gift.
“Why don’t we try it now? I’ll go get it.” Susan hurried back to the living room, chagrined by her omission. It was such a lovely present.…
She was back in her kitchen in minutes, the box held high in her hands. “I hope you and Chad know how much I love this,” she began.
“Enough to offer me a midnight snack?” Her son had left the sanctuary of his room. As usual these days, only hunger could draw him out. Happily for his continuing relationship with the rest of the family, he was hungry more often than not.
“Take anything you want,” his mother offered. “There’s leftover everything. From soup to nuts.”
“We didn’t have soup.”
“No, it’s just an expression,” Susan said, trying to talk and read the directions that came with her new gift at the same time. These glasses were really bad; the instructions looked like a foreign language. She was immediately glad she’d kept the thought to herself; it was a foreign language. She turned the paper over and found the directions in English, shaking her head at her own stupidity. She leaned back against the tile counter and started to read.
A few minutes later, she gave up. How could it possibly take thirty-nine steps to produce one cup of espresso topped with steamed milk? It was simpler to make beef bourguignon. Chrissy had set up the sleek, black gadget in the middle of the counter. It looked like a bomb. How did it steam the milk? she wondered. “I think we should grind the beans first. The directions say ‘until fine.’ ”
“I’ll do it,” Chad offered.
“What do you know about grinding coffee beans?” Chrissy asked him, grabbing the small electric grinder from her brother.
“Oh, sure, Miss College Freshman. I saw how you were sniffing the wine at dinner as though you’d become some sort of fancy connoisseur in the three months since you left home.”
“I’m—”
“We all know you’re dating the heir to the grocery fortune of the Northeast. You’ve told us often enough.…”
Chrissy wasn’t about to allow that to pass without comment. “He’s not the heir to the grocery fortune of the Northeast! He’s a member of the family who owns only the most famous gourmet shop in New York City.…”
“And don’t forget those branches in the Hamptons, Westport, and Chicago.…” Chad smirked.
“Okay, you two. It’s Christmas for a few more minutes. Couldn’t you at least wait to argue until after midnight?” Susan was becoming exasperated with her children. They had always squabbled, but Chad had seemed lonely when his older sister left for college and, only a week ago, so happy that she was coming home that Susan had hoped things were changing for them. They had been fighting since Chrissy walked in the door.
“You’re just upset because your girlfriend didn’t come over today—” Chrissy began.
“Shut up, you.” Chad evidently wanted to say more, but a glance at his mother kept him quiet. He grabbed a handful of fudge off the counter and slammed out of the room.
Susan fiddled with the machine until she heard him stomp up the stairs, then she turned to her daughter. “What girlfriend?” she asked.
“You don’t know?” Chrissy may have learned a lot in her first semester of college, but apparently she still believed her mother to be mentally deficient.
It was Christmas. And she had been given this wonderful present. Susan smiled as she spoke. “Would you be betraying any confidences if you told me about her?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know. Everyone was talking about her tonight …,” Chrissy started.
“Who?” Susan decided a simple question might be the best way to get a simple answer. She was only asking for one name, for heaven’s sake.
“Courtney Sawyer.” Chrissy poured beans into the grinder.
“Howard and Betsy’s daughter. How does he know her? She’s been away at boarding school since seventh or eighth grade. I don’t think I’d recognize the child.”
“You wouldn’t if you still think of her as a child,” Chrissy agreed, pressing the switch and grinding the beans. “Are you ready for these?” she asked, sniffing the fragrance.
“Pour them in there,” Susan said, pointing. “And tell me exactly what you meant by that last comment. She’s Chad’s age, isn’t she?”
“Do you know the expression ‘sixteen going on thirty’?”
Susan was beginning to understand why Chad found his sister so irritating. “Yes, I’ve heard it,” was all she said, pouring water in one container, milk in another, and pressing what she hoped was the correct series of buttons in the proper order.
“Well, that’s Courtney. From what I’ve heard, her party is going to be something.”
“What party?” Susan asked, wondering if that bubbling noise was normal or if she should unplug the machine before it exploded.
“The one the Lindgrens were talking about!” Chrissy reached over and pressed another button on the machine. “The salesman at Bloomingdale’s showed me how to use this—it’s not difficult.”
The Lindgrens had been one of the couples who spent a considerable part of the afternoon in front of the Henshaws’ fireplace. Susan thought back over the conversation. “I don’t remember any talk about Courtney.”
“Mother, what were you doing? Daydreaming?”
It wasn’t often that Susan got to hear herself quoted by her children, and she had to work to resist smiling. That is, she did until she heard the rest of Chrissy’s story. “Mrs. Lindgren was talking about some caterer the Sawyers had gotten for Courtney’s party and how this caterer was in the middle of some sort of nervous breakdown or something and screwed up all their plans. They were very upset about it.”
Susan could imagine, but she let her daughter continue without interrupting.
“So that’s how I heard that Courtney is going to have some sort of fa
ncy-schmancy, sweet-sixteen party—honestly, I don’t know what’s happening to the suburbs. The importance placed on the rituals of childhood is almost repulsive. And hiring some catering company with a strange name and then complaining about it all evening …”
“What name?”
“I don’t remember exactly.” Chrissy looked puzzled. “Something to do with plants. I thought it sounded more like a florist than a …”
“The Holly and Ms. Ivy?” Susan asked, interrupting her daughter.
“Yes. Dumb name, don’t you think? Why are you getting so upset?” Chrissy looked at her mother curiously. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s probably nothing.” The scent of coffee was beginning to fill the kitchen. “What exactly were the Lindgrens saying about The Holly and Ms. Ivy?”
“You should probably call them, if you really want to know. I just heard that whoever was in charge of reserving the place where the party was going to be held had screwed up. Is that the caterer’s job?”
“The Holly and Ms. Ivy is more than a caterer—they’re really a party planning service. They do everything, from sending out invitations to arranging for people to park cars. Everything. In fact, I’ve hired them to do my New Year’s party this year.”
“Mother! Why?” Chrissy looked as though her mother had admitted to an exotic sexual perversion. “You love giving parties!”
“I just thought I’d try something different this year,” Susan said. “And you know I had the flu right after Halloween, and it took me such a long time to feel well. I really wasn’t right until Thanksgiving.… And I’d heard such good things about The Holly and Ms. Ivy that I thought it might be interesting to have the party done by someone else.” Susan wondered if her daughter realized that she was just making excuses. She wasn’t really sure why she had decided to turn the Henshaws’ annual New Year’s Eve party over to someone else—maybe it was just that she had been offered the opportunity at a moment when the idea was particularly appealing.
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