Let There Be Suspects (5 page)

I whisked into the dining room and stole two cups of eggnog, then made it back out again before Fern could corner me for a lengthy critique of everything from my salted nuts to Sid’s taffeta bows.

“Here,” I told Cliff when I found him again. “You look like you need it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t drink.”

I smiled. This was a plus considering the fate of Ginger’s mother. “You’re safe with that.”

He looked pleased, more because I was talking to him than because the eggnog was alcohol free. I felt a stab of warmth for the guy. Cliff was not the man I expected Ginger to choose as a husband. He seemed too nice and, well, too ordinary. I was curious—so what’s new?

“Tell me about you.” I raised my crystal cup to tap his. “How did you and Ginger meet?”

“At a party.” His first sip of eggnog left a streak over his top lip. “I couldn’t believe she noticed me.”

Me neither, although, of course, I didn’t say so. “And you’ve been married . . . ?”

“More than a year.”

“Well, congratulations.” I wanted to welcome him to the family, but I couldn’t force out the words.

“That a real antique, isn’t it?” Cliff gestured to Ed’s train set that circled our lovely blue spruce.

“It was Ed’s father’s. It doesn’t work, but we put it up every year.”

“I can get it working.” He smiled. Cliff has even, white teeth, and for a moment I saw maybe a hint of what had attracted Ginger. “I know a lot about electronics,” he said.

We gazed down at the set together. I don’t know anything about trains, but Ed’s told the girls about this one so many times I have the spiel memorized. It’s a Lionel O-gauge passenger train, with a steam locomotive that once tooted merrily, two passenger cars, and an observation car. The cars are bright red and the engine is a rusty sort of green. Sometime in Ed’s youth, the train stopped moving and tooting. I had a nasty suspicion my mother-in-law had helped it along.

“Ed would love to be able to run it again,” I said. “His dad died when he was little.”

“If you let me know when he’s not going to be around, I’ll see what I can do. It would be a nice surprise on Christmas Day, wouldn’t it?”

“He’ll be gone all day tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll stop by.”

I was touched. Cliff really
was
a nice guy.

When I left him he was kneeling beside the tree looking closely at the train set. I’d hardly seen my husband, who was busy making sure everyone was happy, but now I found him chatting with a man who looked vaguely familiar. I joined them, and when it was clear I needed one, Ed performed an introduction.

“Aggie, you remember Peter Schaefer? He’s the pain relief specialist who was so much help when Marjorie Witkins was dying.”

I did remember. Mrs. Witkins, a longtime member of the church, had succumbed to a particularly virulent cancer last month, and Dr. Schaefer had been called in to help her internist find the right combination of drugs to ease her suffering. Ed had worked with both doctors and the family, to be certain everything was done. With Dr. Schaefer’s help Mrs. Witkins had died more humanely than she might have. I had met him briefly at her funeral.

“I appreciate the invitation,” the doctor said. “Not everyone in Emerald Springs is so happy to entertain me.”

Peter Schaefer was a distinguished-looking man in his midforties. Black haired, tanned, and lean, he did not look like anyone’s version of a social pariah. I wasn’t sure what to say, but Ed clarified. “Peter’s having a few problems with public sentiment in Emerald Springs.”

“Fears of drug abuse,” Peter said. “Ours is a society that believes suffering’s good for the soul.”

I do read the newspaper, and I know all about the hospice movement, so I was surprised at his words. “I thought these days doctors give cancer patients all the drugs they need.”

“That’s more or less true. But nonmalignant pain is a different story. You’d be shocked at the degree people suffer from other conditions, and the little that’s done to help them.”

“Peter’s made a real difference for some members of our congregation.” Ed didn’t volunteer for whom and I didn’t ask.

“I suspect there are other members of your church who’d like to ride me out of town on a rail,” Peter said.

This was clearly the prelude to a conversation on medical ethics. I told the doctor I was glad he had come and excused myself.

Vel was readying more food in the kitchen, so I followed her from counter to counter, apologizing for sticking her with what should have been my job.

“Don’t worry, I love doing this,” she assured me. “The food’s a big hit.” She paused and met my eyes. “But Sid’s fruitcake?”

I waited.

“Junie scarfed up Ginger’s beef satays, but she claims she’s developed an allergy to almonds. She didn’t touch the fruitcake.”

Sounds like small stuff, I know. But it was another slap in the face to our little sister, who had worked so hard.

I thought of Ginger and her interest in Bix. “Since Ginger’s cooking is such a hit, why don’t we tell her we need help whipping up something exotic and chain her to the stove.”

“That’s the funny thing. She doesn’t seem to know her way around a kitchen. She was in here warming the beef when I was finishing up the eggnog, and I asked her to hand me the egg separator. She couldn’t find it, and it was right in front of her. Then I asked her to grind some nutmeg, and she didn’t have a clue how to do it.”

I’ll confess I’d never seen a nutmeg grinder before Vel arrived with hers. It has this tiny little prong that holds the nutmeg, and tiny little teeth at the bottom. I thought it was some exotic torture device until Vel explained. But
I
didn’t go to culinary school.

“I don’t care if she stands here and burns chocolate,” I said. “At least she’ll be out of commission.”

“Good luck.”

Before I could find Ginger or even join Lucy and my mother, who were laughing together in the family room, Fern and Samuel tackled me. The crowd around the dining room table had thinned a little, and I’d forgotten to don my invisibility cloak. Both the Booths had filled their plates, so I guess the food, at least, was above reproach. They were staring through the open doorway at Ed and Peter Schaefer.

“Your husband is talking to that doctor,” Fern said.

Since clearly this was true, I had no idea how to respond. I waited.

“I can’t believe he was invited,” Samuel said. “Surely someone else brought him along?”

“Dr. Schaefer’s been a real help to Ed.”

I saw their eyebrows shoot up, and hastened to explain since, of course, they would think the worst. “By helping our
members
who need a pain specialist.”

Fern lowered her voice. “The man is a drug pusher. Everyone knows it. Now that he’s moved in, our little town’s just a way station for addicts. I have a granddaughter! I will not allow this man to poison Emerald Springs and hook my little Shirley.”

I tried and failed to picture baby Shirley, Big Bird, and the Teletubbies strung out on the corner of Church and Cardinal Streets.

I struggled to take her seriously. “He’s our guest. I’m afraid that’s the only thing I know today.”

Okay, in Fern’s defense, she didn’t say this out loud. But I swear, I could hear her thoughts. So yes, I had been temporarily employed at a bookstore with a few questionable books. And yes, too recently I had played hide-and-go-seek with a murderer. But I was reformed. I was trying to live an exemplary life.

“We are watching Dr. Peter Schaefer.” Fern gestured frantically to a woman who looked only vaguely familiar. Others were glancing our way, and I tried to smile my reassurance.

The woman stomped over. Hers was one of those faces I remembered but couldn’t put a name to. She was probably a member, but one who only came for special events and holidays. Christmas is a magnet for even the most liberal churches.

“You know Ida Bere?” Fern asked.

This sounded like a test, so I didn’t answer directly. “Welcome to our open house, Ida.”

“Mrs. Wilcox doesn’t know the story behind Dr. Schaefer,” Fern told Ida, who was an athletic-looking woman close to Fern’s age. Ida had muscular arms and a square jaw that could probably grind up nuts and bolts.

Ida wasted no time. “He is polluting Emerald Springs. He feeds on our young!”

I pictured the urbane Dr. Schaefer in a Godzilla costume. “You sound very concerned.”

“He writes prescriptions for hundreds of pills, then he writes more. Where do you think those drugs go? Why do you think he does it? You don’t think he’s really trying to help people, do you?”

“Isn’t pain relief a valid medical specialty? Alleviating suffering sounds like a good thing to me.”

Ida leaned closer. “He prescribes drugs to addicts. And if his patients aren’t addicts when they arrive in his office, they are by the time they leave. I’m organizing a coalition to stop him. I hope we’ll have your support.”

I held up my hands. “It sounds like a complicated issue. But you’re obviously worried. I hope you’ll make an appointment to talk to Ed. He’s keeping office hours right up until Christmas Eve.”

“I don’t know why you invited that man,” Ida said. “I don’t know what he’s doing here.”

“Enjoying himself, I guess. Which reminds me.” I was desperate to change the subject, and I knew how to do it, although it pained me enormously. “Fern, every year we ask the youngest child at our holiday party to put the angel on the top of our tree. And I’m sure Shirley is the youngest this afternoon. Do you think she’d like that?”

Fern was too smart not to know what I was doing. But she was also a proud grandma. I watched her struggle and felt more kindly toward her. Say what you will, but Fern does love her granddaughter.

“I’ll go find her,” Fern said.

I was relieved to see Ida falling into step behind her. Gratefully I made my party rounds.

By now the house was packed, and there was activity everywhere. Deena and friends from her religious education class were tying garlands of tinsel in their hair. A young couple Ed had married in November were smooching under the mistletoe Sid and Bix had tacked between the kitchen and dining room. From the living room sofa I heard a debate about the annual Christmas Eve Nativity, which this year was in the parking lot of the largest Catholic church in town. Several Women’s Society members, bless them, were quietly clearing away plates and cups. I didn’t see Lucy, but Junie was showing off her caftan to an admiring group of needlecrafters who work all year making saleable items for the Christmas bazaar.

The choir had taken a brief break, but I knew when Shirley put the angel on the tree they’d be thrilled to do another impromptu carol. As I went to corral a soprano, I heard music from the hallway. But it wasn’t any carol I knew.

“Delta Xi, means to me, loyalty, truth, and honor. I pledge with my heart, to make a new start, with the brothers of Delta Xi.”

I stopped at the door into the hallway to see the most unlikely trio, Bix, Cliff, and Peter Schaefer, heads together, right arms hooked, singing happily.

I’d vetted the eggnog, but I guess I should have warned Cliff about the mulled wine.

They finished, and I applauded, along with a couple of other people who, like me, were delighted the song had ended.

“Fraternity brothers,” Cliff said sheepishly. “They noticed my ring.”

He held up his hand and I saw a gold ring with a crest and Delta Xi in raised Greek letters. I thought it was great Cliff had new friends. I thought it was even greater Cliff hadn’t taken a swing at Bix, who was unfortunately not eating grilled cheese at Lana’s Lunch with my sister.

Peter had his hat and coat in hand, and before he left I wished him a happy holiday. I just hoped that he hadn’t felt the waves of acrimony lapping in his direction. At least he’d found brotherhood as he was leaving.

I dug up a soprano, and managed to catch my husband and ask him to retrieve the angel from the coat closet. I rounded up all children in attendance, and finally, to get everyone’s attention, I rang the silver bell Sid had hung from evergreen swags draped over the bannister.

When it was almost quiet I told everyone about our angel tradition. People were tolerant of the sentiment. After all, it was Christmas time.

Mabyn and Howard came around the corner with Shirley in her father’s arms, but Shirley didn’t look any happier than she had when she arrived. Ed joined us and presented her with the angel. Shirley reached for her mother, but Mabyn stepped out of sight, as if she knew that Shirley would try to cling to her if she stayed nearby. Howard lifted his daughter high and told her to put the angel in place. Ed stood by to help.

The house actually had grown silent, except for the choir members who had chosen to perform “The Little Drummer Boy.” Their off-key “rum pum pum pums” were like a drumroll, building up the tension.

Shirley’s a smart little girl, and when she realized every eye was riveted on her, she stopped fussing. This was a child who knew she was meant to play a starring role in life’s little play, and I bet she thought the rest of us had finally realized it, too. She lifted the angel with a dramatic flourish. Her dad held her away from him, then higher to reach the top. Ed stood by to guide her to the branch and help slip the angel in place. When it was secure, everybody applauded loudly.

I guess it was the applause that did it. Shirley gave a loud screech and a lurch, and startled, her father lost his balance and stumbled backwards. Shirley made a grab for the closest branch and grabbed a string of the old bubble lights instead. She yanked; the lights flickered wildly, then shot sparks into the room.

Somebody screamed, everybody leaped backwards, and to top things off the unmistakable sound of splintering glass rang from the direction of the dining room.