Iced (2 page)

In the five years he’d spent up the river, Eben had mused that he’d been stealing jewelry since he was sixteen. He comforted himself with the thought that thirty-odd harmonious and profitable years were enjoyed by almost no one else in his profession.

However, five years as a guest of New York State had permanently soured Eben on the prospect of a return visit to the penitentiary. When he was given a measly check, an ill-fitting suit and the address of his parole officer, he had one fleeting moment of regret for the friends he’d made behind bars. They’d even put together a party of sorts in the TV room the night before he was sprung. One friend’s wife had baked a seven-layer cake and as a tribute to his particular skills had filled the layers with plastic toy watches. Swallowing over a lump in his throat as the whole room burst into “Auld Lang Syne,” followed by “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” Eben had said to them, “You’re the only family I’ve ever known. But I still don’t want to come back.”

In his days as a thief, Eben had come to enjoy a bit of gracious living. He was particularly fond of renting nice houses. Post-prison, he realized that he would never be able to afford such luxury from the fruits of honest labor. While flipping through a copy of
Architectural Digest
, he started to get depressed but then happened upon an ideal solution. It occurred to him that every one of the estates he was looking at probably had a caretaker. Kidney-shaped pools with their very own waterfalls needed to be maintained, velvety lawns needed to be raked, long winding driveways needed to be blown clear of snow to make way for luxury vehicles.

Many a time Eben had made his leisurely way through an estate house after disconnecting the alarm, while the caretaker sat in his apartment over the garage drinking beer and watching mud-wrestling on television. Eben had decided that the only way he was going to come even close to living the good life again was to be a caretaker. Of course the old-fashioned way was to marry into it, but so far Eben had found no prospects.

To be totally insignificant-looking had been a great advantage when he was pursuing his life outside the law. Medium height, mousy hair, brown eyes and average features constituted a nightmare for polices ketch artists. Horn-rimmed or frameless glasses, colored contact lenses, various hues of hair rinse contributed to his makeovers, enabling him to elude police for so long. Now he had put on a little extra weight that he wasn’t proud of, but at least he didn’t have to worry about disguising it.

He’d won the drama medal in the eighth grade after starting out playing the third wise man in the school Christmas pageant and then had gone on to star, ironically enough, as the Artful Dodger in
Oliver Twist
. The zealous director should never have called in the magician named Slippery Fingers to teach me all those tricks, he often thought. It became too easy to relieve people of their gems. After his arrest, the only chance Eben had to exercise his acting skills was when he played Santa Claus for the children of inmates at the annual family Christmas party.

Which leads me to where I am today, Eben thought as he looked down from his perch. The slopes that a short time ago had been dotted with skiers were now virtually empty. The clouds that had blown in only a few minutes ago opened up and it began to snow. The thick soft powder immediately began to obscure the mountain peaks on the horizon.

Eben began to hum “Frosty the Snowman.” This was perfect. He’d have one more run down the mountain, then go home and get ready for his big night. He quickly switched his humming to “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

At the top of the mountain Eben disembarked, grabbed his skis and clumped over to the area where people threw their skis on the ground and got ready for their run. Eben pulled on his goggles to protect his eyes from the blowing snow. Someday I’ll be a great skier, he thought. But right now I’m glad that there aren’t many people around and I have more room to myself.

He started down the hill, ambling from side to side, practicing the snowplow, which so far was the safest way for him to navigate the slopes, all the while repeating the commandments he’d learned on his
Even You Can Ski
video. He’d watched the tape over and over in the privacy of the guest suite of the Wood home, where he was the caretaker in residence. He’d been so lucky to get the job.

He liked working for important people like Sam and Kendra Wood. They owned a home in Aspen but weren’t there very much. Eben was in charge of keeping the place in shape. The Wood family was flying in tomorrow for the Christmas vacation. Their houseguests, the mystery writer Nora Reilly and her husband Luke, would be arriving with them. Eben had been busy getting everything ready. He still had to clear his stuff out of the guest suite, which he secretly used when he was alone. No one was the wiser for it, and Eben enjoyed living like a king. His quarters were perfectly adequate, but the little garage apartment could get drafty at times and it didn’t have a big screen TV or plush carpeting or a Jacuzzi in the bathroom. Eben was always careful about leaving everything spotless when it was time to clear out, a bittersweet task at best. He loved it when the Wood family came into town and he was always truly glad to see them but he also had a great love for the big comfy bed and heated towel racks that he wouldn’t get to enjoy again until they packed their bags and winged their way back to New York. Give and take, that’s what life is all about, Eben thought.

He was so proud of the place that he’d even gotten a little daring about showing it off after he’d had a few drinks. I probably shouldn’t have brought them back last night, Eben thought as he slipped and fell. Who would have thought, when he went into town last night for a beer and a burger at the Red Onion, Eben’s favorite, a famous old mining-day saloon where he felt comfortable relaxing around the historic wooden bar and under the old historical photographs, that he would run into Judd Schnulte? What a surprise that had been. And it could have been a terrible problem. No one in Aspen except his friend Louis knew that Eben had been a jailbird, and he wanted to keep it that way.

He needn’t have worried. When Judd saw Eben, it was hard to tell from both their horrified expressions who had more use for a panic button.

“My girlfriend’s in the can,” Judd had said nervously.

“How long will she be in?” Eben asked sympathetically.

“You never know with women. She’s always complaining about the long lines in ladies’ rooms.”

“I thought you meant our kind of can,” Eben responded with a laugh, and then lowered his voice. “You know, a house of correction.” He patted Judd on the shoulder. “We always did call you Mr. Smoothie.”

“Yeah, well, whatever you want to call it, she doesn’t know about my life in the cage. And I’d really like to keep it that way,” Judd said, with almost a warning tone that slightly annoyed Eben.

“It’s our little secret,” Eben assured him. “I’m trying to make an honest living too. I’ve got a dream job, but I wouldn’t have it if they didn’t think they could trust me.” As he talked, Eben wondered if all the members of the five million support groups that had sprung up for every conceivable problem felt the same queasiness when they ran into each other in public. Life was so much simpler when the one club everyone had in common was the T.G.I.F. group. Thank God it’s Friday. Of course, being inmates together wasn’t quite the same as being in group therapy, but it was a secret that the rest of the world didn’t need to know.

Eben could see that a new girlfriend might not look kindly on a previously unmentioned incarceration period. What was it that Judd had been locked up for anyway? Eben racked his brains. I’ve got it! he thought as Judd’s girlfriend joined them. He was an art thief.

Judd put down his beer. “This is Willeen. Willeen, say hello to Eben here. We know each other from way back.”

She’s a cute-looking gal, Eben thought. He extended his hand. “How do you do.”

“My pleasure.” Willeen smiled as she squeezed Eben’s hand and held it just a little bit too long. She had blond hair, freckles and a pouty mouth. Eben figured she was probably about forty. Judd still looked the same to him: a good-looking Mr. Smoothie with brown hair and brown eyes, about the same height as Eben, late forties. Eben remembered him as being sharp-tongued but funny. They make an attractive couple, Eben thought, even though Judd is not practicing the honesty-is-the-best-policy theory of relationships these days.

“So what’s this job, Eben?” he asked.

Over a beer he explained. It was nice to chat and brag about the fancy home he was in charge of. They sat down in one of the booths by the bar and ordered dinner. Feeling good, Eben boasted a little about his upcoming gig playing Santa at the famous Christmas Eve party at Yvonne and Lester Grants’ house. Willeen obviously read the gossip columns.

“The Grants’ house?” she repeated, impressed.

“Yes,” Eben said proudly. “Yvonne Grant has a big party every year and really likes to do it up. Everyone brings their kids, so naturally they want Santa there too. It’s so much fun. You should see me all dressed up!”

“We’d love to.” Judd had laughed.

“But how, honey?” Willeen asked. She turned to Eben and put her hand on his arm. “We’re not invited to the party,” she said with a flirtatious pout.

Eben was pretty relaxed at this point. He usually didn’t like to bring anybody back to Kendra’s house. But his Santa suit was in the bedroom there and it was Christmas....

“Come back to my place for a nightcap!” he’d blurted. “The Wood family is coming on Christmas Day. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

Judd had insisted on paying the check and the three of them headed out into the night together.

Now in the light of day Eben felt a little guilty about it. Oh well, he thought as he snowplowed back and forth. No use worrying about it now.

The snow was really coming down and Eben’s goggles were starting to fog up. It was perfect Christmas Eve weather, but Eben was glad when he made it to the bottom. He hurried to his car and secured his skis in the rack on top. I’ll be home in a few minutes, he thought, and I’ll heat up some cider, take a nice hot Jacuzzi, and get ready to ho-ho-ho.

“Eben.”

Eben turned his head as he was opening the door to his car. Judd was running toward him.

“Hi, Judd. What’s going on?”

Huffing and puffing, Judd told him. “Willeen was sup-posed to pick me up but she had some trouble with the car. Would you mind giving me a lift to the place where we’re staying?”

Eben tried to sound cordial when he was really anxious to get home. “Well, sure, Judd. Where did you say it was?”

“It’s just a few minutes outside of town. Not too far.”

“Hop in.”

They drove along chatting amiably, heading in the opposite direction of the Woods’ home. Eben stole a peek at his watch, hoping that they’d get there soon. He didn’t have much time now.

“Turn here,” Judd finally said. He led Eben up a heavily wooded rural road to an old Victorian farmhouse.

“I see you decided not to go the condo route, huh?” Eben said.

“We like an old-fashioned kind of place with a little bit of privacy,” Judd replied. “Why don’t you come in for a drink?”

“Thanks, but I can’t.” Eben didn’t know why all of a sudden he felt uncomfortable. “I told you I’ve got to go be Santa.”

Judd pulled out a gun from under his jacket and pointed it at Eben’s head. “Don’t worry about Santa. Nobody believes in him anyway. Now get in the house.”

As his life passed before his eyes, Eben desperately wished he’d obeyed his instinct that morning to remove his things from the guest suite and wipe out the tub.

2

Summit, New Jersey

Saturday, December 24

R
EGAN REILLY LEANED back on the big overstuffed couch in her parents’ den and balanced a cup of hot tea in her hands; she was mesmerized by the twinkling lights of the sizable Christmas tree in the corner. Gaily wrapped packages were cozily arranged around its trunk. Tinsel glistened from its branches.

You’d never know it was a fake, Regan thought. She turned her gaze to the flames lapping evenly in the fireplace. You’d never know the fire was a fake either. Three red felt stockings hanging on the mantel, embroidered with the names Regan, Luke and Nora, completed the perfect Christmas-card scene.

The old grandfather clock in the hallway started to bong. Five o’clock and all is well, she thought.

So where are my mommy and daddy?

Her father, the owner of three funeral homes in the Summit, New Jersey, area, had gone out to take care of a few errands and her mother had gone into New York City to have her tooth repaired by their friend, Dr. Larry Ashkinazy, otherwise known as Mr. Drill, Fill and Bill.

Regan, a private investigator who lived in Los Angeles, was home with her parents for a few days before they all headed out to Aspen on Christmas Day. Regan was going to stay with a friend who was opening a restaurant and inn out there. She and Louis had met three years ago in traffic school in L.A., both having been nailed by the same cop in a speed trap on the Santa Monica Freeway. Rather than get points on their licenses, they had each opted for the choice of attending traffic school, which meant classes run by stand-up comedians. Louis, an occasionally successful dilettante, was a co-founder of the Silver Dollar Flapjack Chain, and he had confided to Regan his dream of someday opening up a restaurant of his own in Colorado.

Now, at age fifty, Louis had finally achieved his goal. He had sold his house in L.A., invested his last red cent, and had begged and borrowed the rest. His new restaurant was called the Silver Mine, and there would be a kickoff party there on December 29 to benefit the Rescue Aspen’s Past Association.

While Regan stayed at the Silver Mine, her parents would be the houseguests of Kendra and Sam Wood. Sam was a prominent Broadway producer. Kendra, an actress who had starred in one of Nora’s television movies, was about to make her Broadway debut in Sam’s upcoming production.

Regan put down her teacup and pulled the requisite multi-colored afghan on the back of the couch around her. She snuggled into the arm of the couch, the only arm around, when the phone began to ring. She picked up the cordless phone next to her, willing her voice to sound bright and holidayish.