Joanne Fluke Christmas Bundle: Sugar Cookie Murder, Candy Cane Murder, Plum Pudding Murder, & Gingerbread Cookie Murder (50 page)

I’ll spare you the details of what happened next.

Let’s just say I’m surprised they didn’t set fire to the sofa cushions.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Cathy sighed when it was over. “We’re going to be so happy together. You’ll never have to lift another mail pouch for as long as you live. I’ve got more than enough money for both of us. Garth left me a very wealthy woman.”

“You know I don’t care about money,” Jimmy protested feebly.

Yeah, right. Just like I didn’t care about pepperoni pizza.

“I really gotta get back to work now, babe,” he sighed. “I still got mail to deliver.”

Acck. The moment I’d been dreading. Any second now, he was going to reach behind the sofa to pick up his shirt and discover me cowering there.

I thought about making a run for the door, but was too terrified to move.

“Don’t go,” Cathy pleaded. “Not yet. How about a nice hot bath for two?”

Yes! Yes! Please take a bath! You both need one after the gymnastics you’ve just been through!

“Let’s make it a quick shower. I got a million packages in my truck.”

Okay, a shower’s good, too. Just go!

And they did. Limp with relief, I heard them scampering up the stairs.

The minute the shower started running, I crawled out from behind my hiding space and raced into the foyer, past Jimmy’s mail cart, and out the front door.

The last thing I heard as I made my break for freedom was Cathy singing “Besame Mucho” at the top of her lungs.

So much for the grieving widow.

My muscles had been through the wringer that afternoon, what with crouching behind a sofa for twenty minutes and being shot like a cannonball from a bathroom window.

So the minute I got home, I ran myself a steamy, muscle-relaxing bath, billowing with strawberry-scented bubbles. I sank down into it and sighed in ecstasy.

What a difference forty-eight hours makes.

Just two days ago, I had one measly suspect, and now I had them coming out of my ears.

For starters, there was Cathy Janken. I was still reeling over the tender love scene I’d just witnessed. Clearly her tears on my first visit had been an act. She probably disliked Garth as much as everybody else. Maybe even more. The question was, had she bumped him off to bankroll a happy new life with her macho mailman?

Next, there was Peter Roberts. Garth was threatening to expose his criminal past and get him disbarred. Had Peter sent him tumbling to his death before Garth could carry out his threat?

And what about Prudence Bascomb, aka Brandy Alexander, stripper extraordinaire? Did she scamper up Garth’s roof to put an end to his pesky blackmail demands?

Last but not least, there was Libby Brecker. I hope you haven’t forgotten that pink flocking stuck to her baseboard. I sure hadn’t. No, she was still very much alive and well on my suspect list.

“So who did it?” I asked Prozac, who was sprawled on top of the toilet tank. “What do you think?”

I think it’s time you got out of that tub and fixed me dinner.

She jumped down from the toilet and started waving her tail in her patented Feed Me wag.

“Forget it, Pro.”

Minced Mackerel Guts would be nice.

“It’s not going to happen.”

With bacon bits on top.

“I am not budging from this tub. Not for at least a half hour. There’s dry food in your bowl if you want some.”

But I want Minced Mackerel Guts.

More tail waving, accompanied by a plaintive yowl.

“You’ll get your Minced Mackerel Guts. In a half hour. Not a minute sooner.”

Okay, be that way.

She shot me a dirty look and slunk out the door.

I really had to start disciplining that cat more often; the way she bossed me around was disgraceful. No wonder she ran riot on an airplane. She was spoiled rotten. I vowed that from then on, I was going to be a new sterner cat owner.

I was lying there, feeling quite proud of the new Disciplinary Me, when Prozac came sashaying back in the room with a brand new pair of pantyhose dangling from her mouth.

How that cat manages to open my lingerie drawer is beyond me, but she does it all the time. I’m surprised she hasn’t figured out how to call for pizza.

I think I’ll nibble on your pantyhose while I’m waiting for dinner.

Needless to say, thirty seconds later, I was in the kitchen, water puddling around my ankles, opening a can of Minced Mackerel Guts.

Prozac stood at my feet, gazing up at me with what I could swear was a smirk.

I thought you’d see it my way.

“Some day I swear I’m going to put you up for adoption.”

Yeah, yeah. In the meanwhile, don’t forget the bacon bits.

Y
ou know how sometimes you go to sleep with a problem and you wake up the next morning and the answer to your problem is staring you right in the face?

Well, that may happen to you, but it sure didn’t happen to me.

I got up the next morning, still clueless about which of my suspects had sabotaged Garth’s roof.

Oh, well. I’d just have to let everything percolate in my brain and hope that the answer would come to me eventually. In the meanwhile, I needed to take time off from the case and go Christmas shopping.

Every year I vow to buy gifts early and avoid the last-minute crunch. But you know me. I make a lot of vows I don’t keep. (See Discipline the Cat Vow.) In just a matter of days I’d be boarding a plane to Florida and so far, I hadn’t bought a single gift. I couldn’t afford to procrastinate one minute more.

So, fortified with a wholesome breakfast of peanut butter on a Pop Tart, I headed off to do battle at the mall.

I zipped over to Century City and pulled into a coveted parking space right near the escalators, congratulating myself for getting out of the apartment by ten
A.M
. and beating the crowds.

My game plan was simple.

This year, I would not stand in a daze agonizing over what to buy. I would be a kamikaze shopper, choosing my gifts quickly and decisively.

It didn’t matter what I bought, anyway. Whatever the gift, my mom always says, “Oh, darling. I could’ve bought it for less on the shopping channel.” Really, if you bought my mom a new house, she’d tell you she could get it for less on the shopping channel.

No, this year, I would march into Macy’s and buy practical gifts that everybody could return for something they really wanted. No dithering, no shilly-shallying. If I stuck to my schedule I’d be out of there in an hour.

Hah!

Three hours later, I was still wandering around in a daze, wasting time looking at impractical, impossible-to-pack items like rotisserie cookers, musical flowerpots, and macrame hammocks (perfect for Cousin Joanie’s Chicago condo).

By the time I finally managed to get my act together and pick out my unimaginative assortment of ties, scarves, pajamas and slippers, the stores were crowded and long lines were snaking at the registers. What would’ve taken minutes to buy hours ago, now took forever.

Finally, when the whole horrible ordeal was over and my credit card lay gasping in my wallet, begging for mercy, I headed over to the food court to reward myself with a corn dog and fries.

Which, I have to say, were pretty darn delicious.

I sat there, inhaling my food, grateful that I had a whole 364 days before I had to go through this nightmare again.

And then, just as I was polishing off my fries, I remembered Angel Cavanaugh, and her sledgehammer hints for a Christmas gift.

I’d checked out the L.A. Girlfriends guidebook, and sure enough, although normally frowned upon, “modest gifts” were permitted at Christmas.

I rummaged in my purse till I found the newspaper ad Angel had given me, for a pair of jeans from a store named Hot Stuff. Scrawled in the corner of the ad, in Day-Glo pink marker, were the words: “I wear a size 0.”

I almost choked on my Coke when I saw what they cost: Eighty bucks!

No way was I spending $80 on that kid. Twenty dollars was “modest” enough for me and my MasterCard.

Then I remembered Angel sucking at that inhaler of hers, gasping for air, and a wave of sympathy washed over me. I thought of her crummy apartment and her overworked dad. Something told me she wasn’t going to be getting a lot of gifts this Christmas. Or any other Christmas, for that matter.

Oh, what the heck? I was already in hock to MasterCard for decades to come. What was another $80?

With a weary sigh, I tossed my corn dog wrapper in the trash, and set out to buy a pair of Hot Stuff jeans.

Luckily, there happened to be a Hot Stuff store in the mall. But not-so-luckily, when I got there, I discovered they were sold out of jeans in Angel’s miniscule size 0.

“Would you like me to see if I can find a pair in another store?” the bouncy teenage clerk asked.

Hot Stuff was one of those stores geared to the Clearasil Set, whose idea of a size Large was my idea of a handkerchief.

“That would be great.”

She called around and minutes later got off the phone, grinning.

“Good news! They’ve got one pair left out in Glendale. I told them to hold it for you.”

“Glendale?”

I gulped in dismay. Do you know what it’s like getting from Century City to Glendale in L.A. Christmas traffic? Think the Donner Party, with palm trees.

No way was I going to trek all the way out there for Angel Cavanaugh.

Then once more the image of Angel sucking on that inhaler flashed before my eyes, and the next thing I knew I was crawling along on the freeway, watching my fingernails grow. I swear, I would’ve made better time on a walker.

It took me nearly two hours to get there, and another twenty minutes to circle around looking for a parking spot. Finally I found one at the far end of the lot and hiked over to the Hot Stuff store.

A vacant-eyed teenager sat at the checkout counter, chatting on the phone in what I could only assume was a personal call.

“She didn’t! Really, Cheryl? She actually said that? Why, I’d never speak to her again if I was you, Cheryl. No, sir. I’d tell her exactly where she could put that pom-pom of hers!”

I stood there listening to this fascinating monologue for a few minutes, then finally managed to get her attention.

“Hey! You, with the phone glued to your ear. You’ve got a customer. Remember us? The people you’re supposed to be helping?”

Okay, so what I really said was “Ahem,” but she got the message.

“Hold on a sec,” she said to Cheryl, then turned to me with an irritated sigh. “How may I help you?”

“You’re supposed to be holding a pair of jeans for me at the register.”

She stared at me blankly. “I don’t have any jeans here.”

“Sure, you do. They called a couple of hours ago from Century City.”

“I dunno about any call. I just started my shift five minutes ago.”

“Could you please just look behind the counter for a pair of jeans.”

“Oh, all right.”

With a grudging sigh, she poked behind the counter.

“Nope,” she gloated. “No jeans here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

I looked, and she was right. Nada. Zip. A jeans-free zone.

Grinding my teeth, I showed her the ad from the paper.

“You have any of these jeans?”

“Over there,” she said, pointing vaguely to a rack in the back of the store.

I hurried over to the rack and checked out the jeans. Thank heavens, there was one pair left in a size 0. I was just about to reach for them when I felt someone tap me on my arm.

I turned to see a short roly-poly woman at my side.

“Would you mind helping me out?” she said, smiling sweetly. “I need one of those sweaters.”

She pointed to some sweaters stacked on a shelf above the jeans.

“No problem,” I said.

“Thank you so much! I need a pink one in a size small. It’s for my niece. All the kids seem to love this place.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said, reaching up to get the sweater.

I turned to hand it to her and I saw, to my consternation, that she’d taken my size 0 jeans from the rack.

“Excuse me. I was going to buy those.”

“Oh?” she said, still smiling sweetly. “So was I.”

“But I saw them first.”

“Well, I’ve got them now.”

For the first time I noticed a glint of steel behind that smile of hers.

“You don’t understand. I called the store and told them to put these jeans on hold for me.”

“What a pity they didn’t.”

“I drove out here all the way from Century City in rush-hour traffic.”

“And all for nothing!” she tsk-tsked. “Well, thanks for helping me with the sweater.”

She traipsed off with the jeans clutched to her ample bosom. And I went a tad ballistic. I charged after her, lunging for the jeans like a bull with anger management issues. But she wasn’t about to let go of them. Not without a fight.

And that’s exactly what happened.

I’m ashamed to say we had a most undignified tussle over those jeans.

I leapt into the fray with confidence. My roly-poly adversary was a good twenty years older than me. Surely I could take her down.

But she was a surprisingly tough fireplug of a lady. After much mutual pushing and clawing, she managed to land a powerful shove that left me flat on my fanny, the contents of my purse scattered on the floor around me.

“Bye, now!” she trilled, skipping off to the register. “And thanks again for the sweater.”

Muttering a string of curses not fit for your delicate ears, I gathered my belongings and stormed over to the checkout counter, where the clerk was ringing up her sale.

“I just love the holiday season!” she chirped to the bored teenager. “It’s such a happy time of year, don’t you think?”

“Whatever,” grunted the clerk.

“I hope you can live with yourself,” I hissed in Ms. Fireplug’s ear.

But she went on chatting, blithely ignoring my eyes boring holes in her back.

Finally the clerk finished her end of the transaction and asked Ms. Fireplug for her credit card.

“Of course, dear!”

She reached into her purse, and suddenly her good mood vanished.

“My wallet,” she gasped. “I’ve lost my wallet!”

“Hah!” I crowed. “That’s what you get for being such a lowdown sneak.”

“If you’re not gonna buy this stuff,” the clerk sighed, “I gotta do a void.”

“I’ll take those jeans,” I piped up.

Together the clerk and I managed to pry the jeans from Ms. Fireplug’s fingers. And after the original sale was voided, I whipped out my credit card and paid for them.

Now it was Ms. Fireplug’s turn to stand glaring at me.

“There you go, Ma’am,” the clerk said, handing me the jeans in a gift box. “Have a nice day.”

“Oh, I will. I most definitely will.”

Then I reached into my pocket for a little something I’d found when I’d been crawling on the floor picking up the contents of my purse.

“I believe you dropped this in our scuffle,” I said, tossing Ms. Fireplug her wallet.

And then I headed out into the mall, the sweet sounds of her curses following in my wake.

I had just started the Himalayan trek back to my car when I noticed a store that stopped me in my tracks. The place was called The Cap Shack, and a sign in the window said:
PERSONALIZED BASEBALL CAPS FOR ALL OCCASIONS
.

And there in the corner of the window was a bright red cap with the words
Fiddler on the Roof
embroidered across the front. Fiddler, not Fiedler. The play, not the roofers. It was the only theatrical title among the
Old Fart, I Love Grandma,
and
Kiss Me, I’m Irish
baseball caps on display. What, I wondered, was it doing there?

Suddenly the wheels in my brain, rusted from a day at the mall, started spinning. I had a hunch how the
Fiddler
cap got there and I marched inside to see if I was right.

A skinny kid with a bobbing Adam’s apple sat behind the counter, a baseball cap on his head.

“Welcome to The Cap Shack,” he intoned with all the enthusiasm of a funeral director.

“Hi, Francis.” I knew his name was Francis because it said so on his hat. “I’m hoping you can help me out.”

“You looking for work? Trust me. You don’t wanna work here. It stinks.”

“No, I’m not looking for work. I just want to know if you keep a record of your job orders.”

“Sure. We keep ’em for six months.”

“You think I could take a look at them?”

“Sorry,” he said, with a lugubrious shake of his head, “I’m not allowed to divulge personal information about our customers.”

Now before I write another syllable, you’ve got to promise that what happened next stays between us. Don’t go ratting on me to Century National, okay?

In spite of the stern warning I’d received from Elizabeth Drake, I whipped out my Century National insurance card and gave one last performance as Jaine Austen, Insurance Investigator. (I swear, Elizabeth, if you’re reading this, I’ll never do it again!)

“You’re really investigating a murder?” Francis asked, his eyes bugging with excitement.

“Yes,” I nodded solemnly. “And I need to see those books.”

Lucky for me, Francis was a gullible soul, and minutes later I was sitting behind the counter poring through a thick looseleaf binder of Cap Shack back orders.