Skipping Christmas (12 page)

Nora will kill me, Luther thought, but he had no choice. The plan was so simple it had to work. He and Spike would remove the breakable ornaments, and the garlands, and for sure the popcorn, lay them all on the sofa and chairs, ease the tree out of the house with lights intact, haul it over to Luther’s, and dress it with real decorations. Then, at some point in the near future, Luther and perhaps Spike would strip it again, haul it across the street, put the Trogdon junk back on it, and everybody would be happy.

He dropped the first ornament and it shattered into a dozen pieces. Spike showed up. “Don’t
break anything,” Luther said, as he cleaned up the ornament.

“Are we getting in trouble for this?” Spike asked.

“Of course not. Now get to work. And fast.”

Twenty minutes later the tree was stripped of anything breakable. Luther found a dirty towel in the laundry, and lying flat on his stomach, under the tree, he managed to work the metal tree stand onto the towel. Spike leaned in above him, gently shoving the tree to one side, then the other. On hands and knees, Luther managed to slide the tree toward Spike, across the wood floor, across the tile of the kitchen, down the narrow hall to the laundry, where the branches scraped the walls and dead spruce needles trailed behind.

“You’re making a mess,” Spike said, helpfully.

“I’ll clean it later,” said Luther, who was sweating like a sprinter.

The tree, of course, was wider than the door to the garage, as all trees are. Spike pulled the wagon close. Luther grabbed the trunk of the tree, lifted it with a strain, swung the bottom through the door and pulled the whole thing through. When it was sitting safely in the garage, Luther caught
his breath, hit the garage door opener, and managed a smile at Spike.

“Why are you so brown?” the kid asked.

The smile vanished as Luther was reminded of the cruise he wouldn’t be taking. He looked at his watch—twelve-forty. Twelve-forty and not a single guest for the party, no food, no Frosty, no lights strung anywhere, no tree, as yet, but one on the way. It seemed hopeless at that moment.

You can’t quit, old boy.

Luther strained again and lifted the tree up. Spike shoved the wagon under, and of course the metal tree stand was wider than the Radio Flyer. Luther got it balanced, though, and watched it for a moment. “You sit here,” he said, pointing to a tiny spot in the wagon and under the tree. “Keep it from tipping over. I’ll push.”

“You think this’ll work?” Spike said, with great suspicion.

Across the street, Ned Becker had been minding his own business when he saw the tree disappear from the Trogdons’ front window. Five minutes passed, and the tree reappeared in the open garage, where a man and a kid were wrestling with it. He looked harder, and recognized
Luther Krank. Watching every move, he called Walt Scheel on a portable phone.

“Hey, Walt, Ned here.”

“Merry Christmas, Ned.”

“Merry Christmas, Walt. Say, I’m watching the Trogdons’ house, and it appears as if Krank has lost his mind.”

“How’s that?”

“He’s stealing their Christmas tree.”

Luther and Spike began their way down the Trogdon driveway, which had a slight decline to the street. Luther was behind the wagon, hanging on, letting it roll slightly. Spike clutched the trunk of the tree, terrified.

Scheel peeked out his front door, and when he saw the theft with his own eyes, he punched the number for the police.

The desk sergeant answered.

“Yes, this is Walt Scheel, Fourteen eighty-one Hemlock. There’s a burglary under way, right now.”

“Where?”

“Right here. At Fourteen eighty-three Hemlock. I’m watching it in progress. Hurry.”

Trogdon’s tree made it across Hemlock to the other side, right in front of the Becker house, where now in the front window Ned, his wife,
Jude, and his mother-in-law were watching. Luther negotiated a right turn with the handle, and began pulling the wagon toward his house.

He wanted to sprint before anyone saw him, but Spike kept telling him to take it slow. Luther was afraid to look around, and he didn’t believe for a second that he was going unnoticed. When he was almost to his driveway, Spike said, “Cops.”

Luther wheeled around just as the patrol car slowed to a stop in the middle of the street, lights flashing but no siren. Two officers jumped out as if it were a SWAT mission.

Luther recognized Salino with the large stomach, then young Treen with the thick neck. The same two who’d stopped by hawking calendars for the Police Benevolent Association.

“Hello, Mr. Krank,” Salino said with a smirk.

“Hello.”

“Where you going with that?” asked Treen.

“To my house,” Luther said, pointing. He’d come so close.

“Maybe you’d better explain,” said Salino.

“Yeah, well, Wes Trogdon over there let me borrow his Christmas tree. He left town an hour ago, and me and Spike here were just moving it.”

“Spike?”

Luther turned and looked behind him, down at the wagon, at the narrow gap where Spike had been. Spike was gone, nowhere to be seen on Hemlock.

“Yeah, a kid down the street.”

Walt Scheel had a seat on the fifty-yard line. Bev was resting, or trying to. His laughter got so loud that she came to see what was the matter. “Pull up a chair, honey, they’ve caught Krank stealing a tree.”

The Beckers were howling too.

“We got a report that a burglary was in progress,” said Treen.

“There’s no burglary. Who called?”

“A Mr. Scheel. Whose wagon is this?”

“I don’t know. Spike’s.”

“So you stole the wagon too,” said Treen.

“I’ve stolen nothing.”

“You have to admit, Mr. Krank, it looks very suspicious,” Salino said.

Yes, under normal circumstances, Luther might be forced to say that the entire scene was a bit unusual. But Blair was getting closer by the minute, and there was no time to back down. “Not at all, sir. I borrow Trogdon’s tree all the time.”

“We’d better take you in for questioning,”

Treen said, and unsnapped a pair of handcuffs from his belt. The sight of the silver cuffs sent Walt Scheel to the floor. The Beckers were having trouble breathing.

And Luther went weak at the knees. “Come on, you can’t be serious.”

“Get in the backseat.”

Luther sat low in the back, thinking of suicide for the first time in his life. The two cops in the front seat were chatting on the radio, something about finding the owner of the stolen property. Their lights were still swirling, and Luther wanted to say so much. Let me go! I’ll sue! Turn off the damned lights! Next year I’ll buy ten calendars! Just go ahead and shoot me!

If Nora came home now, she’d file for divorce.

The Kirby twins were eight-year-old delinquents from the far end of Hemlock, and for some reason they happened by. They walked close to the car, close to the rear window, and made direct eye contact with Luther, who squirmed even lower. Then the Bellington brat joined them and all three peered in at Luther as if he’d killed their mothers.

Spike came running, followed by Vic Frohmeyer.

The officers got out and had a word with him, then Treen shooed the kids away and released Luther from the backseat.

“He’s got keys,” Vic was saying, and Luther then remembered that he did indeed have the keys to Trogdon’s. What a moron!

“I know both these men,” Frohmeyer continued. “This is no burglary.”

The cops whispered for a moment as Luther tried to ignore the stares from Vic and Spike. He glanced around, half-expecting to see Nora wheel into the drive and have a stroke.

“What about the tree?” Salino asked Vic.

“If he says Trogdon loaned it to him, then that’s the truth.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, okay,” Salino said, still sneering at Luther as if he’d never seen a guiltier criminal. They slowly got in the car and drove away.

“Thanks,” Luther said.

“What’re you doing, Luther?” Vic asked.

“I’m borrowing their tree. Spike’s helping me move it. Let’s go, Spike.”

Without further interruption, Luther and Spike rolled the tree up the driveway, into the
garage, and grappled with it until it was sitting rather nicely in the front window. Along the way they left a trail of dead needles, red and green icicles, and some popcorn. “I’ll vacuum later,” Luther said. “Let’s check the lights.”

The phone rang. It was Nora, more panicked than before. “I can’t find a thing, Luther. No turkey, no ham, no chocolates, nothing. And I can’t find a nice gift either.”

“Gifts? Why are you shopping for gifts?”

“It’s Christmas, Luther. Have you called the Yarbers and Friskis?”

“Yes,” he lied. “Their lines were busy.”

“Keep calling, Luther, because no one is coming. I’ve tried the McTeers, Morrises, and Warners, they’re all busy. How’s the tree?”

“Coming along.”

“I’ll call later.”

Spike plugged in the lights and the tree came to life. They attacked the nine boxes of decorations without a care as to what went where.

Across the street, Walt Scheel watched them through binoculars.

      Fifteen      

Spike was on the ladder, leaning precariously into the tree with a crystal angel in one hand and a fuzzy reindeer in the other, when Luther heard a car in the drive. He glanced out the window and saw Nora’s Audi sliding into the garage. “It’s Nora,” he said. Quick thinking led him to believe that Spike’s complicity in the tree should be kept a secret.

“Spike, you need to leave, and now,” he said.

“Why?”

“Job’s over, son, here’s the other twenty. Thanks a million.” He helped the kid down from
the ladder, handed over the cash, and led him to the front door. When Nora stepped into the kitchen, Spike eased onto the front steps and disappeared.

“Unload the car,” she commanded. Her nerves were shot and she was ready to snap.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and immediately wished he’d said nothing. It was quite obvious what was the matter.

She rolled her eyes and started to snap, then gritted her teeth and repeated, “Unload the car.”

Luther high-stepped toward the door and was almost outside when he heard, “What an ugly tree!”

He spun, ready for war, and said, “Take it or leave it.”

“Red lights?” she said, her voice incredulous. Trogdon had used a strand of red lights, one solitary string of them, and had wrapped them tightly around the trunk of the tree. Luther had toyed with the idea of pulling them off, but it would’ve taken an hour. Instead, he and Spike had tried to hide them with ornaments. Nora, of course, had spotted them from the kitchen.

Now she had her nose in the tree. “Red lights? We’ve never used red lights.”

“They were in the box,” Luther lied. He did
not enjoy lying, but he knew it would be standard behavior for the next day or so.

“Which box?”

“What do you mean, ‘Which box?’ I’ve been throwing stuff on the tree as fast as I can open boxes, Nora. Now’s not the time to get touchy about the tree.”

“Green icicles?” she said, picking one off the tree. “Where’d you find this tree?”

“I bought the last one from the Boy Scouts.” A sidestep, not a direct lie.

She looked around the room, at the strewn and empty boxes, and decided there were more important things to worry about.

“Besides,” Luther said, unwisely, “at the rate we’re going, who’s gonna see it?”

“Shut up and unload the car.”

There were four bags of food from a store Luther’d never heard of, three shopping bags with handles from a clothing store in the mall, a case of soft drinks, a case of bottled water, and a bouquet of dreadful flowers from a florist known for his outrageous prices. Luther’s accountant’s brain wanted to tally up the damage, but he thought better of it.

How would he explain this around the office?

All the money he’d saved now up in smoke. Plus, the cruise he didn’t take getting wasted because he’d declined to purchase travel insurance. Luther was in the middle of a financial disaster and couldn’t do a thing to stop the bleeding.

“Did you get the Yarbers and the Friskis?” Nora asked at the phone, the receiver stuck to her head.

“Yes, they can’t come.”

“Unpack those grocery bags,” she demanded, then said into the phone, “Sue, it’s Nora. Merry Christmas. Look, we’ve just had a big surprise over here. Blair’s coming home with her fiancé, be here tonight, and we’re running around like crazy trying to put together a last-minute party.” Pause. “Peru, thought we wouldn’t see her till next Christmas.” Pause. “Yes, quite a surprise.” Pause. “Yes, fiancé.” Pause. “He’s a doctor.” Pause. “He’s from down there somewhere, Peru I think, she just met him a few weeks ago and now they’re getting married, so needless to say we’re in shock. So tonight.” Pause.

Luther removed eight pounds of smoked Oregon trout, all packed in airtight thick cellophane wrappers, the type that gave the impression the fish had been caught years ago.

“Sounds like a nice party,” Nora was saying. “Sorry you can’t make it. Yes, I’ll give a hug to Blair. Merry Christmas, Sue.” She hung up and took a deep breath. With the worst possible timing Luther said, “Smoked trout?”

“Either that or frozen pizza,” she fired back with glowing eyes and clenched fists. “There’s not a turkey or a ham left in the stores, and, even if I found one, there’s not enough time to cook it. So, yes, Luther, Mr. Beach Bum, we’re having smoked trout for Christmas.”

The phone rang and Nora snatched it.

“Hello, yes, Emily, how are you? Thanks for returning my call.”

Luther couldn’t think of a single person named Emily. He pulled out a three-pound block of Cheddar cheese, a large wedge of Swiss, boxes of crackers, clam dip, and three two-day-old chocolate pies from a bakery Nora had always avoided. She was rattling on about their last-minute party, when suddenly she said, “You can come! That’s wonderful. Around sevenish, casual, sort of a come-and-go.” Pause. “Your parents? Sure they can come, the more the merrier. Great, Emily. See you in a bit.” She hung up without a smile.

“Emily who?”

“Emily Underwood.”

Luther dropped a box of crackers. “No,” he said.