Cat Deck the Halls (26 page)

I
N THE CAR
driving home, snuggled beside Max, Charlie was silent, thinking about Cora Lee. She listened as Max told her about the wreck down the coast, and that they thought they might have the missing body of the real Donnie French, of little Corlie's daddy.

When Charlie didn't speak, Max drew her close. “Sorry I missed the party. Sorry I broke my promise to get dressed up—and not smell of mud and seawater.”

“I didn't marry you so you'd dress up and smell nice. I think you smell just fine. But I did miss you.”

“I understand that before the excitement, it was a great party.”

“Sicily did herself proud. I can't believe we sold over two hundred books, besides the seven framed pieces.” She had sold the drawing of Joe Grey, too, standing like a cougar on the sea rocks, and that sale pleased her. That was to be Dulcie's Christmas present, Wilma had told her in a whisper.

But no pleasure could mean much compared with the raw pain they all felt for little Corlie. Even the satisfaction of seeing James Kuda in custody was so small, measured against the distress he had caused—the child's terror and desperate rage, and Cora Lee's shock at the death of her real cousin; that pain gripped Charlie too deeply to feel joy in much else. She hardly noticed when they turned down their long lane and through the new gate into the fenced yard, was barely aware of the barking of their two big dogs. So much hurt, at Christmas, that she felt almost guilty at their own happy home and warm, good marriage—as if she and Max had too much, while Cora Lee and that little girl were so hurting. She got out of the car quietly, without speaking. As Max opened the door to the mudroom, she leaned against him.

“What?” He held her away, studying her face. “You can't take on all the world's pain.”

“I don't take it on. It just…I guess that kind of hurt is catching, something bearing down that I don't know how to sidestep.”

“Don't let it steamroll you,” he said, holding her tight. “Sometimes you can help more by stepping back.”

She tried to think about that; and she was grateful for his strength and good sense. But then later, in bed, clinging close, she said, “What will happen now? What will you do tomorrow?”

“Soon as we can get a warrant we'll search his room, pick up latents, fiber samples. You know the drill. And we need a top computer technician. I expect we'll call the Bureau.” He turned on the pillow to look at her. “You're asking a lot of questions. You planning a life of crime?”

Charlie smiled. “I don't think I'm emotionally detached enough. I'd die of fright before I got caught.” She nuzzled into his shoulder. “Guess I'm just trying to ease my distress for Cora Lee. To not dwell on the sense of betrayal she must feel, and the guilt for bringing James Kuda here.”

“She didn't
bring
him here, Charlie. She was scammed. It happens. And as for Gabrielle, I wouldn't cry too hard. She was more than eager to catch a man, and that can be asking for trouble.” And before Charlie could answer, he was snoring.

Sighing, she stared up through the skylight, too distressed to sleep but too tired to stay awake. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and it would not be at all the comforting and restorative finale to a busy and often stressful year that she had hoped for.

Loneliness and pain, at Christmas, seemed so much more destructive than at any other time, so much more invasive.

Tomorrow is the day of the contest awards, she reminded herself. She tried to think only of that, tried to put herself to sleep visualizing Lori and Dillon stepping up to the judges' table to accept the first prize and to hold the check and grin. If she imagined that scene hard enough, made it real enough, then it had to happen.

 

O
N
C
HRISTMAS
E
VE
morning, a bright sun angled into Gabrielle Row's room at the back of the tall, rambling house. Hers was a large, spacious rectangle with long windows overlooking the backyard and canyon, its own bath
and dressing room, with the smaller alcove furnished as an office/sewing room, where she still produced a few exclusive gowns for her old clientele. Her desk stood in one corner, and already, at eight-thirty, a Bureau agent sat at the computer flashing codes and diagrams on the screen that meant nothing to her. Agent Mel Jepson was young, dark-haired, and sleekly groomed, dressed in a dark suit and tie. He was pleased that only one-fifth of the hard drive was in use, that no one else in the household used her computer, and that she had not turned it on, herself, since she last made a cash transfer, two days ago.

She'd told him that yes, James Kuda had had free access to her room. It being adjacent to the kitchen, she said pointedly. And yes, she had been out yesterday afternoon for two hours having her hair done, and as far as she knew, Donnie—Kuda—had been working in the garden. All of this information seemed to please Jepson.

“I'm not sure I can pull the programs back, but we have a good chance, getting to it so soon, and you may not have used it since it was tampered with. Good, too, that there's very little on the hard drive.” Jepson was so young that Gabrielle had at first wondered if he was competent, but he seemed well acquainted with the systems. He had a soft way of speaking but a keen, intense way of approaching the computer.

Molena Point officers had already dusted the room for prints, and had lifted fibers and various minute particles, retrieving evidence that would show whether anyone besides Kuda, and Gabrielle herself, had tampered with the equipment.

“It's a computer glitch,” Gabrielle had snapped when
Jepson had first questioned her. “Something happened when the power surged, the document was just lost, that's all.”

“Really?” Jepson had said. “Can you be sure of that?” He had looked evenly at her. “I'll do my best with this. It will take, at the least, several hours. If I can bring the programs back, I'll be contacting the banks themselves to corroborate what we have.”

Gabrielle had turned away and left the room. For a while, as Jepson worked, she had angrily prowled the house—letting anger mask her shakiness, mask her fear that indeed her money was gone. Mask the fact that she might have lost everything, that she could be destitute.

Trying to put down the helplessness such an invasion of her personal life left her feeling, and to put down her rising fear of a penniless future, she had wanted to scream and weep and attack something or someone, and had, when Cora Lee came into the living room, turned on her with rage. But then, when Cora Lee had finally calmed her down, Gabrielle could only say, “The programs are gone, the spreadsheets gone.”

“Oh,” Cora Lee whispered, blanching. “Oh…Oh, Gabrielle. Was Harper right?”

“If it
is
true, if Donnie
is
an impostor, it's your fault! Yours, Cora Lee.
You
let an impostor into the house,
you
invited a criminal to move in with us! You let him take me out, let him make promises to me, and you didn't…You didn't even…”

“I didn't
know,
Gabrielle,” Cora Lee said, at first shaken, but then her voice going low and even. “I did not know, Gabrielle. And it was you who let him take you out, you who let him make promises.”

“I don't believe you really didn't know your own cousin. How could you not
know
him? You grew up together. How could you not recognize your own cousin!”

“Gabrielle, it's been nearly fifty years! He looks like Donnie, like our childhood pictures. I have pictures in my room, I'll show you—”

“What kind of fool do you think I am? And what kind of friend are you, to let this happen? I trusted you, Cora Lee! And look what you did to me!”

Cora Lee looked at her and turned away.
Christmas Eve,
she thought, going slowly up the stairs to her room.
Christmas Eve, and look what has happened to our lives
.

 

A
CROSS THE VILLAGE
in the hospital, Ryan and her uncle Dallas were enjoying breakfast in Dallas's room. Dallas, no longer in ICU, was waiting for the doctor to release him. They were sharing nonhospital pancakes and sausages and had their own pot of coffee, thanks to the changing of the police guard and a rookie who had been happy to go for takeout.

“How come you get to go home,” Ryan said, “and they won't let me out?”

“You were hit in the head, Ryan. Even your hard head can take only so much. Maybe this afternoon, once you've seen Dr. Hamry again.”

She touched her head gingerly. “I want to know just how bad it really is.”

“He told you. Simple concussion, but I insisted on both CAT scan and MRI. He says it's
going
to hurt for a while.
He'll tell you what to watch for, when and if to call him. He doesn't want you to be by yourself for a few days, wants someone with you.”

“If there are no complications, I don't see—”

“Clyde wants you over there, wants to take care of you.”

“Like a mother hen,” she scoffed. But she did not dislike the idea.

He put down his fork, looking intently at her. “Clyde's good for you. Why don't you two get married?”

Ryan stared at him. “What kind of question is that? You never ask me that kind of question. You think I need someone to watch over me?”

“He hasn't asked you?”

She began to eat again, quickly finishing her pancakes. Dallas studied her for a moment. “Ask
him,
Ryan. You're not shy.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might not want to get married again? That I might like my single life?” It wasn't like Dallas to nose into her private affairs, he was always laid-back, never nosy.

Well, they were both edgy, fighting pain. She knew that his gunshot shoulder hurt, despite the painkiller.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Your head hurts.”

“The doctor said the headaches would go away. I wish to hell they'd hurry up.”

Dallas grinned. “The subject of marriage really is none of my business.”

“I will be staying with him,” she said stiffly. “He did ask me that. He said I can sleep on the pullout in his study, so if I need anything in the night…” That made her smile. For
a moment she wondered how it would be to live with Clyde in one house, falling over each other, each wanting to keep their own space.

But it wasn't just the constant togetherness. There was another reason why she could never do that, why she could never marry Clyde. The same reason, she was certain, that kept him from asking her, despite how much they cared for each other.

It was a matter she would find impossible to discuss with him, a secret that he would not want her to know. And yet, if she
was
right, a secret that would eat at her until she broached the subject, and got him to talk about it.

D
ILLON
T
HURWELL, HAVING
just arrrived at the seniors' house, dropped her jacket on a kitchen chair, sat down, and watched, fascinated, as Lori Reed poured orange juice over her cereal. “You do that a lot?”

“Do what? Put…?” Lori looked down at her bowl. “Oh…” She swallowed back a word she wasn't supposed to say, and stared up at Dillon and Cora Lee. They were both grinning. She didn't know whether to laugh or scowl at her own stupidity.

Cora Lee put her arm around the twelve-year-old. “We're all distracted, with everything that's going on, and with the judging in just a few hours.”

Dillon studied Cora Lee. “Did something else happen? You two look…” Dillon glanced in the direction of the drive. “That big black car out there…Do you have company? What's going on?”

“It's a long story,” Cora Lee said. “Lori can fill you in while I dress.” The time was ten-thirty. The awards cere
mony would start at noon, to be followed by a buffet picnic, courtesy of Jolly's Deli.

Dillon watched Cora Lee head for the stairs, then looked at Lori.

“You left early last night,” Lori said. “Before the excitement.”

Dillon poured herself a glass of milk and sat down again, snagging a handful of dry cereal to munch. Lori got up and moved to the sink, started to dump her bowl, and then tasted it. Turning, she set it back down on the table, and with her typically stubborn turn of mind, she ate her breakfast as she'd fixed it. In between bites, she filled Dillon in on the events of the previous evening, on Corlie's first words, on the child's damning identification of the killer.

Dillon was quiet a long time, thinking about the man they'd thought was Donnie French, the man they'd both liked because he was fun and was so eager to help everyone. They thought about the real Donnie, whom they'd never known, standing there beneath the village Christmas tree with his little girl in his arms, and that man they thought was so nice, that man shooting him.

“Donnie's sister-in-law is flying out from Texas,” Lori said. “She called back last night, after Cora Lee talked with her, to say she got a cancellation, a night flight. That she'll be here in the morning—Christmas morning, to be with Corlie and Cora Lee for Christmas.

“She's bringing the letters that Donnie wrote to Cora Lee, that she never got. And bringing Cora Lee's letters to Donnie that Kuda snatched out of Donnie's mailbox.”

Dillon's dark eyes flashed with anger. “There's more,”
Lori said. “Yesterday evening Dallas was chasing those Wickens, who hurt Ryan, and one of them shot him.”

Dillon went pale. “He's not…He…”

“He's all right, it was his shoulder, didn't hit a bone. He's in the hospital, he was there when we went to see Ryan, before the opening, but no one said a word in front of Ryan. Maybe they didn't want us to know, either. Didn't want to upset us more than we were.”

“We're not little children,” Dillon said. “I'd rather have known, even if there wasn't anything we could do.” Earlier, up at the school, when they heard sirens, the girls had come running to see what was going on. They had stood watching as Ryan, strapped to a stretcher, was lifted into the emergency van. Later, when Ryan was out of ICU, Dillon's mother had taken them to the hospital for a brief visit. Clyde was there sitting with her. She was disoriented and dizzy. Clyde had smuggled in his gray tomcat, who was lying on her bed, and they thought that was cool.

Lori finished her cornflakes and orange juice, pronounced it delicious enough to send the recipe to the Kellogg company, and rinsed her bowl. Cora Lee returned, looking snug and comfortable in soft corduroy pants and jacket the color of caramel, suede boots, and a suede cap. Heading out to the car thinking about the award, the girls swung from incessant talking to dead silence. Cora Lee, starting the engine, checked herself from saying that the world wouldn't end if they
didn't
win. She was praying hard that she'd see them walk away with the prize.

But whatever happened, she had no doubt that their bright and innovative playhouse would sell at the auction
for a nice price. That thought, however, wouldn't calm the girls' competitive spirits.

And that's as it should be,
Cora Lee thought. Even if they didn't win, the creative high of that long, demanding project wouldn't vanish. The girls would be down for a while, but the joy of conquering what they'd set out to do, of making something beautiful that others would treasure, would still be a part of them, as would the thrill they got from competing against tough competition. Losing couldn't take that away.
I should know,
Cora Lee thought.
I've lost enough times—but I've come out on top just as many times.

And Gabrielle?
she thought.
Will Gabrielle bounce back and come out on top again, too?

She had left Gabrielle to lick her own wounds. But Gabrielle should feel somewhat comforted, with the Bureau man there; if anyone could bring back those files, Cora Lee thought an FBI technician surely could do it.

And if the money was gone, Gabrielle had a roof over her head; she wasn't starving, and they'd all do the best they could for her.
But right now,
Cora Lee thought as she turned up Ocean Avenue,
the sun is shining, the judging is about to start, and tonight is Christmas Eve—tonight is concert night.
Tonight she must forget everything else in the world and give herself fully to the music.

But then tomorrow,
she thought feeling suddenly heavy and dead, as if her heart had stopped,
tomorrow Corlie's aunt Louise will be here. And, too soon, Corlie will go home. We'll have Christmas together, and then Corlie will be gone again, headed home to Texas…

Turning in to the school's gate and waiting in line to park the car, she sat still and rigid, caught in the painful realization that she'd tried to avoid. She would soon lose little Corlie, too. Lose all that was left of Donnie.

Dillon spoke, but Cora Lee hardly heard her. She sat swallowing back sudden tears, trying to get hold of herself, trying to come to terms with this additional, painful loss that seemed too much to bear.