Duck the Halls: A Meg Langslow Mystery (Meg Langslow Mysteries) (32 page)

Michael ducked out a little early with the boys. I stayed behind to make our excuses—no, we weren’t coming over to Mother and Dad’s for the evening—the boys were a little tired, and we had presents to assemble before we fell into bed ourselves.

“But we’ll see you bright and early on Christmas Day!” I said. Probably too early; all the grandparents were determined to be there when the boys woke up and saw their presents. I’d already made sure Mother and Dad could find their keys to the house so I wouldn’t have to let them in.

I took a circuitous route when I left the town square and kept my eye on my rearview mirror. Not that I really expected anyone to be following me for sinister reasons, but I couldn’t help worrying about being spotted by some well-meaning friend or relative who might try to catch up with me to congratulate me on my lucky escape or want to hear the details.

I finally turned into the familiar quiet, tree-lined street and then through the familiar gateway in front of the house that Michael’s friend Charlie now owned. An eight-foot fence that in summer would be covered with climbing roses and honeysuckle vines instead of snow and ice concealed a surprisingly large parking lot, a legacy from when the house had been chopped into eight or ten cramped apartments. By the time Michael had come to Caerphilly, a prosperous faculty member had turned the building back into a single-family dwelling, except for the basement apartment.

The twinmobile, our van, was already there. I hurried down the narrow brick steps along one side of the house to knock on the low door, whose bright red surface was half hidden by an enormous green wreath festooned not only with a red bow but also a half-price sticker from the Caerphilly Market. I could hear carols playing inside—a very nice choral version of “Adeste Fidelis.” Josh opened the door on my first knock—clearly he’d been keeping watch.

“Mommy!” he exclaimed. “Come see playhouse!”

It did seem almost toylike compared with our current house. The ceilings were only seven feet tall so that Michael, at six four, had to duck when he went under an overhead light fixture. It was basically one not-very-large room with alcoves for the kitchen and bath and closet. In our time the kitchen had consisted of a microwave, a toaster oven, and a hotplate on top of a mini refrigerator, and we’d done dishes in the bathroom sink. Now it was fitted out with the smallest stove and kitchen sink I’d ever seen, and a slightly larger and newer mini fridge. Of course, the expanded kitchen took up a few more square feet of what was already a pretty minuscule living space, but it was definitely an improvement.

Charlie had replaced the hideous sofa bed I remembered with a nice new futon sofa. But the bathroom was still separated from the rest of the apartment by the same curtain made of a vintage sixties Indian-print cotton bedspread.

Still, it was cozy. And filled with the most delicious smells—turkey and gingerbread and pumpkin pie. And decorated just as extravagantly as our house was, though clearly by different hands. The bathroom curtain had been drawn aside to reveal a skinny six-foot spruce tree occupying the shower stall—one of the few spaces large enough to hold it. The tree, the rest of the bathroom, and the whole apartment were decorated with red and gold paper chains, lopsided stars cut out of gold paper, and garlands of evergreen held together with Scotch tape, from which I deduced that Michael and the boys had picked the vegetation themselves. A papier-mâché Santa and nine papier-mâché reindeer hung from the ceiling. The power cord to Rudolph’s flashing red nose was wrapped in tinsel and taped across the ceiling and down one wall until it could reach a vacant outlet And taped to all the walls were Christmas posters painted by the boys. Wise men riding on beasts that looked a lot more like llamas than camels. Mary and Joseph bending tenderly over a baby Jesus who seemed to be occupying a car seat rather than a manger. Santa Claus, Mrs. Claus, and the elves surrounded by a three-foot-high avalanche of presents—including what I suspected was a giant hamster cage. A giant Christmas tree almost hidden by the wrapped presents piled around it. A mantel from which hung a line of stockings large enough for giants.

“Did you guys do all this?” I asked. “It’s beautiful!”

Josh beamed. Jamie, overcome with praise, buried his head in the sofa cushions with his rump sticking up, ostrichlike.

Just then I spotted a completely unexpected sight.

“Did Charlie actually add a fireplace?” I exclaimed.

“Couple years ago,” Michael said. “He added one onto the side of his living room, which is right upstairs from here, and decided it wouldn’t take too much more to add one down here.”

“We can make s’mores now,” Jamie suggested.

“After dinner,” Michael said.

“Can we hang stockings here, too?” Josh asked.

“No, we’ve already got stockings at home.”

“But Santa could come here, too,” Josh protested.

“Mommy, listen,” Jamie said. “It’s our Baptists.” He scrambled over to the end table where the soft strains of a choir singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” were coming from a portable speaker hooked to Michael’s iPod. Suddenly “Adeste Fidelis” blasted forth at such incredible volume that we all flinched and Michael hurried to turn the volume down.

“Sorry, Daddy,” Jamie said.

“It’s okay,” he said. “He’s learned how to operate the iPod,” he added to me.

“I’m impressed,” I said. “And that does sound like the New Life Baptist choir.”

“It is,” Michael said. “I got a couple of sound techs from the drama department to record the Saturday night concert. They’ve cleaned up the files, and now you can buy a copy of the concert on the church Web site for a small donation to their cleanup fund.”

“Fabulous,” I said.

Since the kitchen really was too small for more than one person, the boys and I sang along with the Baptists while Michael finished the dinner preparations. Finally a timer went off, and he ran upstairs with potholders, then returned carrying an enormous roasting pan.

“Turkey’s ready,” he said as he lifted the lid, filling the entire apartment with the mouthwatering scent of the turkey. “I actually had to borrow Charlie’s oven upstairs to cook it in—I’d forgotten how tiny this kitchen is. But for the rolls of refrigerator biscuits—this oven should work fine.”

“Mommy, want gwandbewwy sauce,” Jamie said.

“Grandberry?” I echoed. “Oh, cranberry sauce. Right. Do you want me to start on the biscuits or—”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Don’t answer it,” Michael and I said in unison. But Josh, vastly proud of his doorman’s job, was already opening the door.

“Gampa!” he exclaimed. “Come eat turkey?”

“If I’m invited.” Dad looked plaintive.

Michael and I exchanged looks. He raised an eyebrow. Well, it wasn’t as if we’d been trying to avoid Dad. I nodded.

“You’re allowed to stay on one condition,” Michael said. “Tell us how you figured out we were here.”

“I deduced it.” Dad sounded very proud of himself. “This morning at church I was talking to Clyde Flugleman from the turkey farm, and found out Michael had bought a bird, so I knew you were planning something. And then after services, I stopped for gas at Osgood Shiffley’s station and overheard him giving directions to a young man who was having trouble finding this address. And when he said he was turkey sitting for his professor—well, I figured it out immediately. But don’t worry—your secret’s safe with me.”

“So much for keeping secrets in a small town,” I murmured.

“Have a seat,” Michael said.

“I brought some rolls.” Dad held up a bag from the Caerphilly Bakery that was large enough to contain a year’s supply of bread. “Margie at the bakery made them fresh this morning.” He held the bag open slightly and we all sniffed eagerly at the warm, yeasty smell.

“Much better than refrigerator biscuits,” I said. “Michael, do we have any wine?”

“Oops,” Michael said. “I meant to get some.”

“I can go.” Dad stood up. “It won’t take—”

“No, sit,” Michael said. “I can borrow some from Charlie and replace it later.”

“Is there anything you want me to do, then?” Dad asked.

“Story,” Jamie demanded. He handed Dad the pile of Christmas children’s books Michael had brought along to entertain the boys.

Another knock at the door. This time Josh opened it to let in Rob.

“Hey,” Rob said. “Any chance of a bite of turkey? I brought a contribution.”

He held up a container of ice cream in one hand, and in the other another large bag from the Caerphilly Bakery. From the odor of fresh-baked chocolate that had followed him into the room I suspected the parcel contained either brownies or chocolate chip cookies.

“How did you find us?” I asked. “Not that you’re not welcome.”

“I knew from the way Dad was acting that he was up to something,” Rob said. “So I followed him to the bakery. And then when he left, I went in and Margie told me all about it.”

“Oh, dear,” Dad said. “It never occurred to me that Margie would spill the beans.”

Rob shrugged.

“I’ll take those.” I relieved him of his parcels. Yes, I was right—brownies
and
chocolate chip cookies. Rob made a beeline for the fire.

“Before you get too comfortable, go upstairs and get a couple more chairs,” Michael said, handing Rob a key ring.

“Can do.” He bounded out, forgetting to close the door behind him.

“‘Twas the night before Christmas,’” Dad began. “‘When all through the house.’”

“I’m not sure I can fit the ice cream in the freezer,” I said.

“Stick it outside the door,” Michael said. “It won’t melt out there. And while you’re at it, shut the door, will you?”

“‘Not a creature was stirring—’”

I stashed the ice cream outside and was turning to come back in when—

“Hello?”

I looked up to see Rose Noire carefully coming down the narrow stairway with a huge covered bowl in her hands.

“Now I know you didn’t come for the turkey,” I said. Roast turkey was only one of many reasons I couldn’t imagine becoming a vegetarian, but Rose Noire never even seemed tempted.

“Heavens, no!” Rose Noire shuddered slightly. “But I am fond of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. I brought a big salad.”

“How in the world did you find us?” I asked.

“That nice Mr. Gardner who lives upstairs bought half a dozen special gift baskets to take to his mother and aunt and sisters,” she said. “And when I delivered them yesterday morning, he was down here tidying up a bit, and he told me how sweet it was that his friend was borrowing his old bachelor apartment to have a quiet little Christmas dinner with his wife and twin sons. I knew it had to be you. He probably didn’t know we were related. And I wasn’t going to barge in until I realized from the hints he was dropping that your father knew and was planning to come.”

“He was dropping hints?” I winced. “We’ll have the whole family here before long.”

“I doubt if any of the others know about Mr. Gardner,” she said.

“Well, come in,” I said. “We’ll have to send Rob back upstairs for more chairs.”

We’d gotten everyone seated, Dad’s reading was keeping the boys entertained, the rolls were warming in the oven, and Michael was beginning to carve the turkey before the next knock came. This time I answered.

“Horace,” I said. “Welcome. Did you follow Dad or Rob or Rose Noire?”

“Actually, I figured from some hints your dad dropped that you guys were up to something,” Horace said. “So I put the word out over the department radio and one of the other deputies spotted all your cars here.”

“I was not dropping hints!” Dad protested.

“Did you bring anything?” Jamie asked.

“Jamie!” I said. “That’s no way to greet a guest.”

“Actually, I brought your grandfather and Caroline and Mrs. Waterston, if that’s okay,” Horace said. “Seems they all have a hankering for an old-fashioned Christmas dinner.”

The apartment seemed to get even smaller as they all trooped in.

“Lovely idea,” Michael’s mother said, handing me a bottle of red wine. “A nice quiet little immediate family event before tomorrow’s madhouse.”

“Merry Christmas!” Grandfather stepped into the room, holding a second bottle. “Are we in time for dinner?”

“Monty, you old goat!” As she entered, Caroline pretended to swat him with one of the bottles of white wine she was carrying. “You haven’t even been asked to stay yet.”

“Well, we will be, won’t we?” He frowned at me. “You are serving normal food, aren’t you? None of this fancy slop.”

“Shush!” Caroline hissed.

“Someone go bring the dogs in before they get cold,” Michael’s mother said. “And the ducks.”

“Ducks?” Michael and I spoke in unison, and not without alarm.

Dad and Rob went out and returned. Dad was leading Spike and Tinkerbell, while Rob was carrying a cage containing two ducks.

“Ducks are social animals,” Michael’s mother said. “Your grandfather thought Ducky Lucky could use a friend.”

“Don’t worry,” Grandfather said. “They’re both going back to the zoo with us tonight.”

“Now we just need hamsters,” Jamie said.

“Guinea pigs,” Josh contradicted.

“Okay,” Jamie said. “Hamsters
and
guinea pigs.”

“I suppose we should be glad they didn’t bring the llamas,” I muttered.

“Not yet, anyway,” Michael said.

“Have a seat, everyone, if you can find one,” I said aloud. “Rob, more chairs.”

“I’ll keep slicing,” Michael said.

“Put these on ice,” Caroline said, handing me her wine bottles. “Monty, Dahlia, give her the red wine. We should open one to let it breathe a little before dinner.”

We kept Rob busy ferrying chairs, dishes, glasses, and silverware down from Charlie’s kitchen. He even found a card table upstairs, and a tablecloth large enough to cover both it and the small parson’s table that had served Michael and me as both dining table and desk. At last we were all seated, a little tightly packed, but most of us had at least enough space to set down our glasses, if not our plates. The ducks were perched on the coffee table, where they could see the meal—I hoped they either didn’t notice we were eating turkey or weren’t sentimental about their distant cousins. We’d put food and water down for the dogs, but both preferred to curl up under the table, hoping for handouts. They probably wouldn’t be disappointed.