Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (9 page)

I trailed after the truck through the heart of Old Wethersfield. Without consciously intending to, I followed when it turned right into the Hart Seed Company driveway and wallowed down to the loading dock. I pulled up next to the cab and put down my window. The driver also put down his window, no doubt expecting a request for directions. “Ma'am?” he prompted.

“I just wanted you to know that was a very decent thing you did for those geese,” I said.

He looked puzzled for a moment, then, “Oh! Well, sure. I mean, I couldn't just plow over them.” His seamed, weathered face reddened.

“My son is probably the only other trucker I know who would stop for an animal crossing the road.”

“Oh, there's a few of us, Ma'am,” the driver assured me, breaking into a bashful smile.

“Anyway, Merry Christmas,” I said and put my window back up. I gave him a little wave as I headed back out the driveway. I noticed he was still smiling.

I put my deep misgivings about James O’Halloran firmly in the back of my mind and returned home with a lighter heart. I had done what I could to help Mary cope, I reminded myself, and John Harkness would keep her informed. It was time I left these relative strangers to sort out their problems for themselves and stayed focused on my own.

I usually dreaded the early dusk at this time of year. By four o'clock, the light was fading, and by five, night had fallen in earnest. The number of hours of daylight we gained or lost between the summer and winter solstices never failed to amaze me. At the end of June, each twenty-four-hour cycle included nearly sixteen hours of daylight, but by Christmas, we were lucky to have nine. The good news was that by then, the shortest day had passed, and we were once again on the upswing.

I had recruited Emma to help me decorate, and together we spent the afternoon toiling like crazed elves. We rooted through every box in the basement and considered every garland and wreath. We even managed to drag the Christmas tree up the stairs, a task I had delegated to Armando in past years.

When the sky began to darken, I welcomed the evening as a backdrop to our handiwork. The tree stood in its corner by the door that led out to the back deck. It glittered with tiny white lights and hundreds of delicate red globes, which were generously interspersed with Joey's and Emma's favorite ornaments collected through the years. Crystal icicles competed for pride of place with an assortment of childish mementoes, most bearing a chip or a tear. In my opinion, it was perfect.

A gorgeous wreath with a fresh red ribbon adorned the front door, and a second graced the big windows in the living room. A miniature sleigh heaped with holly and pine cones made a cheerful centerpiece on the dining room table. Garland softened the mantle, which bore clusters of gleaming, scented candles, and firewood waited neatly below on the hearth. Harry Connick, Jr. , crooned in the background about chestnuts roasting and Old Saint Nick.
Norman Rockwell, eat your heart out.

Emma and I sat side by side on the sofa, Jasmine curled between us, admiring the holiday ambience we had created. A pleasant lassitude had overtaken us, assisted by the excellent Riesling we were enjoying.

“Not bad at all, if I do say so myself,” Emma declared. She clinked her glass against mine.

“Glad you approve. So tell me again about this Jared we're knocking ourselves out to impress.”

“Oh, it's not that bad, is it?” Emma dodged my question. “You would have decorated anyway, at least a little bit, and I always come over and help you guys put up the tree.”

“That you do, Dearie.” I patted her cheek. “If Joey lived closer, I'd throw myself on his mercy, but now I have Armando. Well, usually I have Armando,” I amended.

“Yeah, men have a way of disappearing at the most inconvenient moments,” Emma muttered to herself, and I looked at her sharply. Before I could comment, she jumped to her feet. “What do you say we give Jasmine a treat and light this gorgeous fire?’

She busied herself with the firescreen and matches. I watched fondly while she restacked the logs in the fireplace to her satisfaction and set them ablaze. Clearly, she had changed the subject, and I knew better than to pursue the topic of Jared. When your children become adults, the most important thing you can do as a mother is learn to keep your mouth shut.

Not for the first time, I marveled at the genetic quirks that had produced two such different individuals as my son and daughter from the same gene pool. Each was a unique amalgamation of Michael's and my physical traits. Emma was a slightly shorter, sturdier version of me at the same age. Her hair was my precise shade of ash blonde, though she wore hers long and loose. Her light brown eyes, flecked with green, were mine exactly, but her other features and smile were all Michael.

Joey, on the other hand, was divided neatly in two, wearing my face on his father's torso. For a year now, he had been living in Massachusetts with his girlfriend Justine. I was happy for them, but I missed seeing him as often as I had been accustomed to doing.

There had been some stormy years, but I was happy to be able to say now that I not only loved my children, I liked them.

Emma and I finished our wine and chatted companionably while Jasmine dozed on her pillow before the fireplace. When her cell phone rang, Emma leaped to retrieve it from her purse in the kitchen. Two minutes later, she was out the door.

“He's a jerk,” said Joey later that evening. He had telephoned as I was trying to decide which of the unappealing leftovers in the refrigerator would constitute my dinner. “He teaches math at some expensive sports academy in Bangor. He won some minor medal in a regional competition a few years back, so the New England Sports Institute hired him.” Joey's disgust was evident, but I wasn't getting any information from Emma, so I pressed on.

“The New England Sports Institute is …?” I opened the lid of a plastic container and sniffed cautiously. Beef stew, I was pretty sure. How had I so completely lost the knack of cooking for just one person?

“It's a private school for the sons of the ridiculously rich and once famous. If your kid can't get out of the tenth grade, and you can afford the outrageous tuition, the Institute will grease his way through the academics and teach him more than anybody needs to know about Foosball.”

“Now you're really lost me. What's that?” I replaced the lid on the container and put it back in the refrigerator.
Chinese take-out it is. Again.

“I don't know either. I just like the word. Bogey, get off the counter!”

I smiled as I imagined Joey's big, amiable tabby cat oozing guiltily off the forbidden surface.

“So Jared is in Maine most of the time, but Emma is so smitten that she hangs around waiting for his nightly telephone call. Is that what you're telling me?”

“Yep, except I doubt that it's nightly.”

“This doesn't sound at all like your sister. Emma has burned through a couple of dozen boyfriends since high school, but I can't remember her playing this part. Oh, there were one or two who got to her when she was a teenager, but since then, she's always been the one who plays hard to get. If Mr. Wonderful of the Moment doesn't make the grade, he's shown the door. What's the major attraction, do you suppose?”

A rumbling purr reached my ear while Joey thought about it. I assumed that Bogey had been forgiven and was now in Joey's lap.

“Beats me, Ma. He's really good looking, for one thing.”

“
Really
good looking,” put in Justine from the background. Joey snorted.

“See what I mean? And he's got the sports star thing going for him.”

“How did they even meet?”

“His parents live in West Hartford. They met when he was in Connecticut visiting them a couple of months ago. He looked up Emma the next time he was down there for the weekend, and she visited him in Maine once. I think she fell in love with the whole New England prep school mystique. She sees herself living on this picture-perfect campus surrounded by a bunch of rowdy kids who adore her and call her ma'am or something.”

I could see how that might appeal to Emma. Her heart had always gone out to kids.

“Or maybe it's just sex,” Joey mused.

“Joey!” Justine and I protested simultaneously. “Please remember you're talking to your mother here,” I begged. “Well, this promises to be an interesting Christmas Eve. I don't even know if Armando will make it home in time. How do you and Justine feel about roast goose?”

“Yuck.”

Perfect
.

Late Sunday morning, I met Strutter and Margo at the Town Line Diner for brunch. We had agreed that what used to be an occasional indulgence would become a regular date as we waited out the slump in the real estate market. We caught up on the few clients who were new to us and shared information on Vista Views, the retirement community that kept us on retainer in the wild hope that one of these days, we would sell a unit. Then we moved on to more interesting topics like family and food and men.

This morning, we shelved that last topic, since Margo's husband John was with us. The handsome Lieutenant Harkness was in charge of homicide and other major investigations for the Wethersfield Police Department. Our paths had crossed as a result of two situations in which we had been involved during the past two years, totally involuntarily. “The homicide biz certainly has picked up since the three of you came to town,” John had been heard to comment a bit sarcastically. Watching how Old Hardnose, as he was called by his subordinates, blossomed under Margo's adoring attentions, I didn't think he had any serious complaints. The man practically purred with contentment.

“I don't know how you gals do this every week and keep your figures,” he said now, patting his midsection. “Another one of those omelets, and I won't be able to buckle my belt.”

“It's all a part of my master plan, Darlin’. You know I'll do whatever it takes to get those trousers off you.” Margo winked at him across her coffee cup, and John blushed to the roots of his hair. After a year of marriage, he still squirmed uncomfortably at Margo's lascivious repartee.

“Is there anywhere in the world you can go these days to escape people yapping on their cell phones?” Strutter helped him out by changing the subject as a particularly obnoxious ringtone sounded in the booth across the aisle from us. The matron to whom it belonged dug furiously in her purse for several seconds and finally produced the thing.

“HELLO, PHYLLIS? YES, I CAN HEAR YOU NOW. CAN YOU HEAR ME?” she yelled into it. We all cringed.

“Well, we can sure as hell hear you, as can most of the people sittin’ in this restaurant tryin’ to enjoy their breakfasts,” Margo sighed.

“I’M HAVING BREAKFAST WITH GINNIE AT THE DINER BEFORE WE GET ON THE ROAD. NO, THE DINER, THE DINER! D-I-N-E-R. YOU KNOW, THE ONE AT EXIT 24 OFF THE HIGHWAY WHERE WE HAD LUNCH THAT TIME YOU AND HARRY VISITED. THE COFFEE WAS SO GOOD THAT HARRY DRANK TOO MUCH, AND YOU HAD TO STOP THREE TIMES ON THE WAY HOME SO HE COULD PEE.” She brayed with laughter at her naughty story and started to cough. Her companion looked embarrassed and slapped her on the back rather harder than was necessary, I noted.

“Why do they always have to yell?” I wondered aloud. “If Phyllis was here at the diner with her, she'd speak to her in a normal tone of voice, but you hand someone a cell phone, and the volume triples.” I glared at the offender across the aisle. “It's very annoying.”

John had been silent, but now he chimed in. “I've noticed that a lot of places have started putting signs up at the entrance asking patrons to turn off their cell phones while they're inside. I think it's a good idea. Why don't you suggest it to the owners here? The three of you eat here all the time. I'm sure they wouldn't mind a constructive comment.”

“I'll do it on the way out today,” I promised.

Two cell phones rang simultaneously in our booth. Strutter rolled her eyes as John and I looked at each other in embarrassment. He began slapping his pockets, and I fumbled for my purse beneath the table. Margo snorted into her coffee cup, that inelegant response she had when something struck her as amusing. John slid out of the booth and headed for the exit, his phone to his ear, while I slapped at Strutter's legs underneath the table. She cackled with glee as I struggled to retrieve my purse.

“It's your fault,” I hissed. “I never have the damned thing on except when we're supposed to meet somewhere.”

“Read my lips,” she responded serenely. “Vibrate.”

I snatched the offending device out of my purse and flipped it open. “If this is a telemarketer, boy, did you get a wrong number.”

I was horrified to hear Mary O’Halloran's voice, which trembled with tears. Her obvious agony stabbed me to the heart. “I'm so sorry. I didn't know who else to call. It's been more than forty-eight hours now, and the police haven't come up with a single lead.”

I flapped a hand at Margo and Strutter to stop their giggling. “Mary O’Halloran,” I mouthed silently.

“It's fine, Mary. I was just being stupid. Did you tell the police all the things you and I talked about on Friday? What about Joseph? Have they been able to locate him?”

“Oh, God, I talked to them for hours and hours,” Mary moaned. “They know as much as I do about James’ family, friends, educational background, hobbies, old girlfriends, bank accounts, everything. They wanted to know if he's addicted to anything, Kate, or if I think he might be cheating on me.
Cheating
on me.” She blew her nose. “As for Joseph, it's as if he never existed. He hasn't been at the last address we have for him in California for more than a year, and the cell phone number he gave me goes right to voice mail. I'm at the end of my rope, Kate.”