3 Requiem at Christmas (7 page)

“Having any intuitions at this moment?” he asked at last.

“Yes, I think that you will want to attend the Requiem Mass
tomorrow night, and while you are there keep an eye out for a blue-
jowled
,
neckless
man with a
gleaming manicure and three armed bodyguards.”

“Other than the armed bodyguards, is there a particular
reason for watching this man?” This had piqued his interest.

“I don’t think he was comfortable in his shoes.”

Now both Raphael and Denver were staring at her.

“I was speaking both literally and metaphorically. The shoes
were very new and expensive, and I suspect that he has also only recently …
ascended to a position of responsibility, probably in Las Vegas.
Also, something about Holtz.”

“Yes?”

“The man was out in a blizzard wearing a kilt and a muslin
shirt and no coat. Now, lots of people around here are wearing them, but I
doubt that any of them would drive into a blizzard wearing one unless they were
in hell’s own hurry—and even then I am thinking that a practical person would
want to improve the odds of their venture by changing into appropriate clothing—so
you are dealing with someone who was obsessive about his role-playing. Someone
who kept a sharpened knife in his sock and who might see his clan costume as a
suit of
armor,
or a soldier’s uniform. Someone who
left rehearsals in such a hurry that he was still carrying his libretto. So he
didn’t go to his room—which you have searched and are keeping locked and
guarded?”

“He thought he was
Braveheart
?”
Denver sounded incredulous. He didn’t answer her about the room, which was in
itself a kind of answer. “And he expected to be attacked? That’s why he had the
knife?”

“Something
like
that. He might also
have thought he was taking orders from
Braveheart
.
And when his passenger attacked him, he fought with a traditional weapon since
it was what he had. However, he may not have sharpened it because he felt
threatened. I suspect that wearing a real weapon was habitual, part of playing
out his role as a clansman.”

“Fought, but didn’t win,” Denver pointed out.

“No, probably because he was driving and trying not to go
off a cliff while fending off an attacker. And Holtz was not small. He was at
least six feet tall and muscled. This argues for an assailant who was pretty
strong. And who maybe had a gun jammed on him.
Or her.
Hence the struggle over the
sgian
dubh
.”

“The what?”

“The knife with a stag’s antler for a
handle.
You can find them at a dozen booths at the fair.”

Juliet stood up.

“I’ll see you at the concert, Captain, if not before.”

Raphael followed her to the door without saying a word.

“Are you two married? Or romantically involved?” Captain
Denver asked abruptly. He sounded incredulous. “Your sheriff seemed to think
that you were … an item of one kind or another.”

Again, he only saw the wheelchair.

“None of your business,” Juliet answered immediately. “But I
think in this matter we are….”

“Two minds with but a single thought,” Raphael suggested,
finally speaking.

“On the same page,” she translated for Captain Denver, who
was not of a poetical bent.

She didn’t say anything until they were out of the diner.

“So, Sheriff Garret believes we are involved?” Raphael
observed as they neared the elevator. “I wonder why.”

“It’s my natural charm.”

“Hm.”

“Maybe Captain Denver doesn’t grasp subtleties, like
friendship.”

“Oh, I think he grasps them fine. Probably the chair threw
him off. Sheriff Garret must not have mentioned it.”

“Well, I don’t care what he thinks, do you?” She was
genuinely curious.

“No, but that is because at the moment we are two hearts
beating as one.” He smiled but Juliet couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Was
he angry? Hurt? For a moment she felt a little panicky, but then he smiled in
his wry way and she scolded herself for being silly.

“Yeah, beating harder than I like.
I don’t like Mr. No-neck showing up at rehearsals. I’d rather he found his
property and got out of town before someone else dies.”

Juliet became aware of the smell of gingerbread. Her stomach
rumbled.

“I haven’t been to see the gingerbread mansions yet,” she
said suddenly. “That would be
Christmasy
.”

“And you feel you must see the cookie houses? Does it
concern the case?”

“No, it concerns me trying to make some kind of
accommodation with a holiday I haven’t been on speaking terms with for
decades,” she admitted. “And I hear that a lot of these houses are art, albeit
in a strange medium.”

“Then by all means let us examine them. I should warn you
though that eventually I will require real food.”

“Isn’t it odd?” she said lightly. “I eat food too.”

“We must be on the same page.”

“Two hearts beating as one.”

The police were there
and they wouldn’t let him in. They had the security cameras trained on the
door! And none of his friends or the choir director admitted that they were
keeping anything for him. They said….

He had been sure that
the woman who had found the body hadn’t taken anything with her. He had watched
and she never touched the body—he was sure.
Almost sure.

*
 
*
 
*

The gingerbread mansions were not what she was expecting.
There were certainly historical and fantastical manors and castles aplenty, but
there was so much more as well. One of her favorites was a replica of Busch
Gardens. She also had a fondness for the Noah’s Ark and an iced structure that
was probably based on the Parthenon. There was even a rusty old pick-up truck
in knee-high grass with a sleeping hound. She was shocked to find when she
consulted the flyer she had been handed at the door that the truck was entered
in the Under 12 Years category.

Raphael seemed likewise fascinated by the tiny structures.
She wondered if it was because the display brought back happy memories of the
father who liked Christmas, or if it was strictly artist appreciation.

“Here you are,” Esteban said. “I have come to beg for
company so that I can live up to my lie about being engaged for lunch.”

“Carrie?” Juliet asked, smiling up at Esteban. She had found
him to be a bit frightening when they first met but had come to appreciate his
rough charm.

“Precisely.
La belle dame sans
common sense has been hounding me. I have left her with the unpleasant Captain
Denver, but there is little hope he will incarcerate her, so I must flee. Why
the hell did I come to this freak show?”

Apparently Esteban had holiday issues too.

“Raphael has been hinting that it was time to consume
something nutritious. Do you feel brave enough to go back to the fair?” she
asked, turning her head to Raphael.

“I suppose. Why?” Raphael asked.

“I want Cornish pasties,” she confessed.

“You’ll regret it,” Raphael warned her. “They are greasy
dough balls.”

“I know. I want one anyway.”

“The only reason I will go back is for the whisky,” Esteban
muttered. “Those people with swords are crazy. They’re dancing with them out in
the lobby.”

This from a man who made puppets out of
bone.

*
 
*
 
*

They found Asher and Elizabeth at the whisky tent. Elizabeth
was smiling but Asher looked anguished. He wasn’t used to mixing with the
common man. He had great artistic and business acumen, but no liking, or much courtesy,
for anyone other than his mother.

“My fellow travelers, you’ve come seeking solace from the
madness of the world?” he asked, lifting a glass and then downing half of it. A
moment later he spluttered.

“Stag’s Breath,” Raphael guessed. “I was lured by the name
too.”

“Yes. My God! Did it pass through an actual deer on the way
to the bottle?”

“I wondered that myself.”

“Let me taste it, dear,” said Elizabeth. “You know I like
strange liqueurs.”

“Certainly.
There are paramedics
near the park entrance if you collapse. Guzzle away.” Asher handed her the
glass.

Elizabeth sipped cautiously.

“It isn’t that bad. It’s actually kind of sweet.
Almost as if it has been fortified with sherry.”

All three of the men shuddered and Juliet started laughing.

“You want to get a pasty?” she asked Elizabeth. “I’d like to
eat and drink—though not bad whisky—before making merry.”

“That does sound wonderful,” she admitted. “By the way, that
is a lovely cape. The color suits you.”

“Thanks. The vendor has some beautiful things. We could go
look if you want. The booth is right over there.”

“That would be fun.” Elizabeth was enjoying being out in the
world. She had been a social woman before her accident.

“You all have fun getting potted,” Juliet said to the men.
“We’ll leave you gentlemen to the whisky and cigars and catch you later.”

“No!” Esteban said. “Pasties sound much better than deer
urine. And I also want a cape. Since I cannot escape this asylum, I have decided
to become Zorro.”

“Okay, but Raphael is right. The pasties aren’t really all
that good,” Juliet warned him. She said nothing about trying to be Zorro. There
were anachronistic pirates and Vikings running around among the fake Celts, so
why not California’s Robin Hood? “I mean, real pasties are delicious, but these
have little relationship to the actual dish served in Cornwall.”

“Then why eat them?” he asked.

“Well, I suppose it is like pink popcorn.”

Esteban was completely in the dark. His childhood had
obviously not included carnivals and circuses and county fairs.

“Pink popcorn was something I always got at the circus or
carnival when I was a kid. It comes in bricks,” Juliet explained. Her breath
caught as they left the protection of the tent. The wind had picked up quite a
bit and even in her cape, she felt the cold. “It tastes stale and soggy, but it
reminds me of happier times so I eat it anyway.”

“Whatever we do or drink or eat, let’s do it elsewhere. The
noise-mongers are tuning up again.”

Asher was clearly not a fan of the bagpipes.

The line at the food booth was long and Asher and Esteban
suggested the others wait in one of the tents while they fetched the alleged comestibles.

Elizabeth was happy to go look at cloaks and Raphael was too
polite to complain about being dragged shopping.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked Juliet as she tried on a
plumed hat, cocking it at a rakish angle.

“Notice all the tans on the bare-chested men who will
probably catch pneumonia this weekend?” she asked back. “I’m wondering how many
came from the tanning salon by the candy shop at the arcade. A lot I should
think. It’s hard to be that perfect with chemical tanners.”

“And this makes you smile? What a heartless woman you are.”

She returned the hat to the shelf and picked up a half mask
of black satin. It would do for Zorro.

“Well, it is kind of amusing. The Celts were probably a pale
people.
Hairy too.
But this is California and even in
winter one must have a tan.”

“Yes? This is a thought with two parts?”

“At least two.
And I was also
thinking that part of what Esteban finds beneath contempt is all the fake tans
and bulging pectorals created at the gym and not from wielding actual weapons.
He is ill at ease with pretense. I never knew this about him.”

“I believe you are right.
At least about
the men.
He hasn’t complained about the women nearly spilling out of
their bodices, though they are also flirting with frostbite and have been
aiding their complexions with a tanning bed. Perhaps it is because they aren’t
carrying weapons.”

“Don’t be too sure. I’ve seen at least one bodice dagger.”

Elizabeth joined them.

“Esteban is built for efficiency,” she said, proving that
she had been listening. “It’s admirable. Are you getting that mask for him?”

“Exactly.
He isn’t the stuff of romance
book covers or Hollywood movies. He’s too lean,” Juliet added.

“Too hard.”

“Too scarred.
A part of me would
like to paint him nude.”

“Me too,” Elizabeth said with a small smile.

“And that is very odd because I don’t do portraits.”

“Me either.” Elizabeth chuckled. “This is very bad of us.
It’s objectification.
Of a friend.”

“Yes,” Juliet agreed.

“Yes,” Raphael said, but both women just laughed.

“The thing is
,
I’m not at all sure
that he’d mind. He’s reserved, not shy.”

“I think you’re right,” Juliet agreed and went to find the
lady manning the booth to pay for the Zorro mask.

What was she doing?
Just wandering through the hotel? Or was she killing time, waiting for someone?
Could she have found a buyer? No! No! It couldn’t be that. She couldn’t have
found anything! He had to find it—had to get it back.
Had to.
People were getting impatient…. Maybe she had it in her room.
If she found it.
How could he get in to look?

*
 
*
 
*

Away from the babble of strange, cloying voices practicing
fake accents, Juliet began to fall under the influence of the glittering lights
and soft organ music piped through the inn. She could—almost—imagine going out
into the night and skiing. They offered night skiing on one of the runs, but
she preferred cross-country and thought that perhaps she would wait for morning
and slightly higher temperatures. Dark and snow brought up too many unpleasant
thoughts.