Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (3 page)

An hour later, I sat in a cramped conference room with the organizers of the annual UCC holiday fundraising event, a cocktail party and auction scheduled for this very Thursday evening. I had been introduced as Mary Alice's temporary replacement, warmly welcomed, and promptly buried in an avalanche of logistical details concerning the annual gala to be held at one of the crown jewels of Hartford's cultural community, the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art.

The castle-like building was the oldest public art museum in the United States and the largest one in Connecticut. The Museum was particularly beautiful at this time of year. Thousands of additional visitors were attracted to its annual Festival of Trees& Traditions, a huge display of Christmas trees, wreaths, and other decorations constructed by local organizations and individuals and donated to be sold for the benefit of the Museum. That made the UCC gathering a fundraiser-within-a-fundraiser, so to speak.

The petite woman who had stopped by Sister Marguerite's office earlier turned out to be Lois Billard, the committee chair. She gave brisk updates on the budget, catering, entertainment, raffle contributions, and RSVPs received to date, which I struggled to take in. My head was spinning. It was clear that this was a major social occasion of the Hartford social season, and despite the downturn in the economy, this year's turnout was going to be a record setter. As Lois outlined the schedule for the evening, it was apparent that the major players from every segment of the business community would be present, as well as leading clergy from all of the Catholic, Protestant and Jewish denominations in the region.

The plan was to gather everyone in a prominent location, dazzle them with ambience, mellow them out with heavy hors d'oeuvres and spectacular wines donated by some of Connecticut's finest eateries and vineyards, then begin the auction. “Liquor them up and get those wallets open,” was Lois's candid plan of action. “Then, just when they may be feeling they've overspent a tad, we'll bring in Santa Claus to distribute the goodie bags filled with gift certificates and enough electronic toys to thaw the tightest wad among them.” She grinned at the assembled committee members, who chuckled appreciatively. Obviously, these people were not nearly as strait-laced as I had imagined them to be.

I had to admit that I quite looked forward to Thursday evening. “Who plays Santa?” I couldn't help asking. Sister Marguerite was quick to reply.

“Why, our very own Santa, of course,” she smiled, gesturing to the bespectacled, middle-aged gentleman beside her who had sat quietly throughout the meeting and resembled Kris Kringle not at all. “Meet James O’Halloran, our chief financial officer, Kate. He's been playing Santa for us for nearly thirty years now. Says it makes a nice change from counting our beans the rest of the time.”

“After all these years, I'm beginning to look the part,” O’Halloran joked along, patting his flat belly as if it were round. “I believe I know one of your business partners, Ms. Lawrence. My wife and I bought a house in Wethersfield a couple of years back, and she had the listing. Cheryl? Sharmaine? Anyway, a delightful lady. Made the experience relatively painless, as I recall.”

“Charlene Putnam,” I smiled, “and yes, she is.”

“James'wife Mary is a mainstay of the Wadsworth Atheneum's Women's Committee, which was how we managed to book that amazing space for our most important fundraiser of the year—and during the Festival of Trees, no less,” Sister Marguerite beamed. “Of course, it took even Mary two years to pull it off,” she added wryly, and everyone chuckled.

On that note, the meeting adjourned, and the staff quickly scattered to pursue their various last-minute assignments. Mine was to keep track of all of the other assignments and serve as the focal point for all gala-related communications in addition to answering Sister Marguerite's phone, screening incoming requests, and assisting with the daily business of the UCC, which was helping local people in need to cope with their current crises.

With Connecticut's unemployment rate threatening to become the highest in history, the stream of requests for help continued unabated throughout the afternoon, which whirled by in a blur. Just before five o'clock, the steeple bell of Asylum Hill Congregational Church rang out. “Two minute warning!” Sister Marguerite called out cheerily, and the staff members scurrying in and out of each other's offices and cubicles heaved a collective sigh of relief. “Quitting time, don't you know,” Sister explained, “but that bell is a little off.”

“Does it ring all day?” I asked in amazement. Until this moment, I had been unaware of it.

“Every hour on the hour,” she assured me, “and two minutes early for every blessed one of them. Well, that's it for me, Katie girl. Come along, Aloysius, you spoiled dog. Time for us to get our supper and see if we can still manage a little walk between us.” The poodle, who had been waiting patiently by Sister's briefcase, thumped his stubby tail on the carpet and creaked to his feet. She snapped a leash on his collar and picked up the briefcase, which bulged with paperwork to be attended to after dinner, no doubt. “Thanks for everything, m'dear,” she said, patting my shoulder in passing as they headed for the door. “Can we expect you back tomorrow?”

“I'll be back,” I assured her.

I let myself out into the parking lot, making sure that the door locked firmly behind me, as I had been instructed to do. The early darkness never failed to surprise me on these December evenings, but the lot was well lit. I joined the other going-homers in the late afternoon traffic and crept from traffic light to traffic light, reflecting on the events of the day.

Now that I had the time to notice, I realized how weary I was. A few days ago, I had been sitting in my recliner planning my next career move. Now I was orchestrating a Martha Stewart Christmas Eve for Emma's new beau, hosting my nephew's holiday wedding, and juggling the myriad details of the UCC’s gala fundraiser. It wasn't surprising that I felt as if I were drowning in Christmas.

What I didn't know was that I was about to go under for the third time.

“I
can't believe Jeff is getting married.” Emma, on the phone with me before work on Wednesday morning, was obviously jolted by the news. “He's younger than I am.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” I wanted to know. “Is it a competition?”

She was reassuringly scornful. “I could have gotten married about six times since I turned fifteen, as you well know. It's not his age. I'm just astounded that he's getting married at all. He's such a maverick, and he and Donna have been doing just fine the way they are, like you and Armando, you know?”

I swallowed guiltily. Despite my determination never to marry again, about which I had been vociferous, Armando and I had had several conversations over the past year on the subject of marriage, specifically, the possibility of ours.
Never say never.
“Well, we can't know what prompts these things. Maybe Donna needs health insurance, and Jeff's employer won't provide coverage for domestic partners. Circumstances back people into corners sometimes.”

She considered that possibility. “I suppose. Do you think that might ever happen to you and Armando?”

“The way this real estate market is shaping up, I wouldn't discount the idea altogether,” I hedged. “People have gotten married for worse reasons, and if they're committed to each other anyway, why not?” I cleared my throat. “Of course, plenty of people still seem to want to get married for more romantic reasons, you know, stand up in front of their friends and families, say the words, take the vow.”

Emma digested this surprising commentary from me in silence but forbore to grill me further on the subject. “Whatever. So Jeff's getting married, and Daddy has volunteered you to host the big event. Is that about the size of it?”

I hastened to soften her father's part in this scenario. “Pretty much, but you know he would have had it at his place if he could have. It's just not possible. Plus, there's a terrific caterer who's agreed to do most of the work.”

Emma laughed. “Yeah, right. He'll sail in forty-five minutes before the ceremony, unload a bunch of food, and go outside to have a cigarette. What about the table set-ups and the drinks and the decorations? How about flowers, photographs? Who's sending out the invitations and tracking the responses? Are Jeff and Donna registered someplace so people will have a clue about gifts?” She paused for breath.

“Good grief, are all of those things up to me to arrange?”

She chuckled mirthlessly. “You know that movie where Katherine Heigl has been a bridesmaid a couple of dozen times? Well, I'm thirty, and I have a lot of girlfriends. Take my word for it. There's a ton of work involved here. The good news is, a lot of the arrangements should be taken care of by the maid or matron of honor. Who's that going to be?”

My knowledge of the details of this wedding was sketchy, at best. “I don't know. Are you volunteering?”

“Heck, no, I'm not volunteering. I just need to know who to call to get this show on the road.”

My heart lifted as I sensed help on the horizon. “You're willing to do that?”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “That's why you called me, isn't it? Since I already have you doing the traditional New England Christmas Eve bit on my behalf, the least I can do is help you out with this wedding. A wedding!” I heard her slap her forehead. “This is going to be some kind of Christmas, isn't it?” Was I imagining it, or was Emma actually enjoying this?

“Some kind,” I agreed cautiously. I had always found the holidays somewhat overwhelming, and until this year, I thought Emma felt the same way. Maybe she harbored some Norman Rockwell leanings after all. I knew that her brother had a soft spot for the holidays, despite his trucker machismo, but Emma? Well, at least she had volunteered to help. I clung to the thought.

“I'll call Sheila today and get the skinny, then track down that maid of honor. Don't worry, Momma. It'll be fine.”

Her confidence buoyed my spirits, and I went about my morning routine with a lighter heart.

Twenty minutes later, I crossed the Silas Deane Highway and entered Wethersfield's historic district on Old Main Street. I might not work here at the moment, but starting my day without coffee from the Village Diner was unthinkable. A sign announcing that the town had been established in 1634 alerted me to the change in ambience that waited around the first curve. Almost immediately, the morning traffic sounds dropped away. The few remaining cars were relatively easy to ignore. The houses occupying the first few blocks, circa 1940, quickly gave way to far older structures. Once past Garden Street, I was plunged into the nineteenth century, then the eighteenth, as plaques next to weathered front doors announced each house's vintage. Finally, discreet signage approved by the local historic commission directed visitors to the museums and homesteads of particular significance.

Interspersed with these august structures were the various establishments that made up the Old Wethersfield business district. I experienced a brief pang as I drove by the Law Barn, which until recently had housed MACK Realty and my daughter Emma's place of employment. Emma, a real estate paralegal, and her lawyer boss Isabel had responded to the market slide by downsizing to a two-person office in Glastonbury. Now a Space to Let sign swung forlornly in the chilly breeze outside the empty building. After that came Blades Salon, Antiques on Main, Mainly Tea, the Webb-Deane-Stevens Museum, and an assortment of small businesses, including a travel agency, bakery and the Village Diner.

Parking along Old Main Street could be difficult later in the day, but finding a spot was easy at this hour. I snugged the Jetta against the curb and dashed into the diner, where the mingled aromas of hot coffee and cinnamon something washed over me. Deenie, the chronically harassed college student who filled all of the diner's take-out orders during the morning shift, greeted me. “Morning, Kate. Just coffee, or is this an off-your-diet day? The sticky buns are nice and fresh.”

As often as not, I gave in to temptation, but not this morning. “Just coffee today, Deenie. Don't want to be late for my new job.”

She grinned at me and went to fill a large paper cup with the diner's special brew. “Yeah, I heard Sister Marguerite talked you into helping out with the UCC fundraiser this year. A big to-do at the Wadsworth, visit from Santa and all that, isn't it? Better you than me. I helped out with that a couple of years ago. All those lah-de-dah women expecting to be treated like royalty.” She rolled her eyes while I tried not to look discomfited. Sister Marguerite had omitted any mention of egocentric donors. I smiled weakly and handed Deenie the exact amount, which I knew from long experience.

“Well, it's only for a couple of weeks. How bad could it be?” I made a hasty exit before she could tell me.

Today's priority was a full run-through of Thursday evening's event. Despite the surface confusion of yesterday's meeting, I felt certain that the chaos had been organized. After all, this wasn't the first such fundraiser these people had orchestrated. They had been through it all before, probably dozens of times. No doubt my own unfamiliarity with the proceedings had been the source of my misgivings. I would get up to speed this morning.

Accordingly, I parked and locked the Jetta a bit closer to the Cathedral than I had the previous morning and joined the parade of volunteers moving purposefully through a rear entrance to St. Joseph's and into the lower church. I looked around curiously. To my untutored eyes, even this lower space looked pretty grand. Row after row of pews were interspersed with wide aisles. A full altar stood at the front of the space, and a smaller, separate seating area occupied the space to the right. A simple altar and what looked to be a baptismal font were located there. The main nave upstairs with its towering ceiling and huge, stained glass windows must be dazzling. At some point, I hoped to glimpse the world-renowned pipe organ, dubbed “The Mighty Austin,” that distinguished musicians flocked to play in a series of concerts offered by the Cathedral throughout the year.