Joanne Fluke Christmas Bundle: Sugar Cookie Murder, Candy Cane Murder, Plum Pudding Murder, & Gingerbread Cookie Murder (52 page)

“She started it!” I cried.

“She squished an éclair in my face,” Angel sniffled, summoning fat tears to her eyes.

Man, this kid deserved an Oscar.

“Did you actually hit her with an éclair?” Tyler asked me, radiating disbelief.

“Only because she hit me first!”

“And then she threw pumpkin pie at me. And trifle, too!” Angel moaned piteously, channeling Orphan Annie, Little Eva, and Tiny Tim all in one.

Tyler’s disbelief had turned to disgust.

“How could you, Jaine? She just a little girl.”

“Oh, no, Tyler. That’s where you’re wrong. She’s not a little girl. She’s the devil’s spawn. Five minutes with this kid is like a year in Guantanamo. I drove two hours in freeway traffic to buy her a pair of $80 jeans and had to fight Ms. Fireplug all because I thought she had asthma which was a total lie, and I don’t care if I did find Garth’s killer at the mall, she got the inhaler from the garbage!”

Okay, so I was rambling a tad. I was upset.

“Killer? What killer?” Tyler asked. “And who’s Garth?”

I never got to answer his questions because just then we were joined by another visitor.

“What on earth is happening in here?”

Tyler gulped. “Sister Mary Agnes!”

I looked over at the stumpy woman standing in the doorway, and blinked in disbelief.

Omigosh.

It was Ms. Fireplug!

Whatever happened to the good old days when nuns wore wimples and long black robes so you knew they were nuns and didn’t wind up wrestling them to the floor for a pair of Hot Stuff jeans?

I mean, really, if I’d had any idea that Ms. Fireplug was a nun that afternoon, I would’ve handed over the jeans, wished her a Merry Christmas, and trotted off to the food court to drown my frustrations in a frozen yogurt.

“I knew she was trouble the minute I saw her,” she now said to Tyler.

“Do you two know each other?” he asked.

“We’ve met,” I managed lamely.

“She stole my wallet.”

“That’s not true!” I protested. “She dropped it and I was returning it to her.”

Tyler stared at me, slack jawed, disillusionment oozing from every pore. Whatever spark I’d felt between us had been stomped to oblivion.

“It’s no use trying to explain,” I sighed. “I’ll just go.”

“Maybe you’d better,” he said softly.

By now a gaggle of L.A. Girlfriends had gathered around the pantry door, whispering among themselves.

With as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances, I plucked a piece of fudge brownie off my fanny and walked past the gauntlet of their disapproving glares.

Outside the church, I passed a statue of Philomena, the patron saint of lost causes. She seemed to be gazing down at me, pity in her eyes.

Sorry, kiddo
, I could almost hear her saying.
Wish I could help, but you’re too much of a lost cause, even for me. Try Bernadette over at Lourdes
.

Then I trudged to my car and drove home in a cloud of humiliation and assorted desserts, leaving chocolate stains on the seat of my Corolla that I have to this day.

F
or two blissful seconds the next morning I had no memory of the Girlfriends debacle, but then it all came rushing back to me like an overflowing septic tank.

What was wrong with me, getting into a food fight with a twelve-year-old? I was a failure as a volunteer and a disgrace to freelance writer/private eyes everywhere.

What’s more, I’d totally scotched things with Tyler, and had about as much chance of getting a writing gig from Sister Mary Agnes as I had of fitting into Angel’s size 0 jeans. Which, incidentally, I never did take with me when I left. So the little brat would get to wear them, after all.

Oh, well. I had to keep reminding myself that if I hadn’t been out in Glendale, I would never have discovered Garth’s killer.

I made up my mind to forget about last night’s fiasco and get back to Garth’s murder, which, after what I’d just been through, was beginning to look like a ride in the wine country.

I put in another call to DiMartelli, but he wasn’t in. The desk sergeant told me he was expected around noon, and I planned to be there the minute he walked in the door. Willard Cox would be convicted and serving a life sentence before the good lieutenant ever returned my call, and I was determined to tell him my story.

After a gourmet breakfast of Pop Tarts and Pancreas Entrails (the entrails were for Prozac), I got dressed and drove over to my dry cleaner. I figured I might as well get some errands done while I waited for DiMartelli to show up.

The clerk had a hearty chuckle when I asked him if he could get eggnog/éclair/brownie/chocolate mousse stains off my cashmere sweater and suede boots. Yes, indeed. Just about broke the meter on his giggle-o-meter.

I bid him a haughty good-bye and was heading back to my car with my ruined clothing when I realized I hadn’t filled Ethel Cox in on what I’d discovered at the mall. She had no idea that, thanks to yours truly, her husband would soon be out of jail. So I decided to make a quick pit stop at Hysteria Lane and tell her the good news.

“Sweet little Cathy Janken?” Ethel blinked in surprise. “A killer?”

We were seated across from each other in her living room, where I’d just finished telling her about my adventures at The Cap Shack.

“Absolutely,” I nodded. “She’s having an affair with another man and wanted out of the marriage. So she sabotaged the roof, then later planted her specially ordered roofer’s cap in Willard’s toolbox to frame him for the murder.”

“Oh, dear.” Ethel shook her head in dismay. “That’s just awful. To kill her own husband, and then to blame poor Willard.”

Clearly she hadn’t glommed onto the plus side of the story.

“Don’t you see, Ethel? As soon as I tell the police how Cathy Janken aka Claudia Jamison ordered that roofer’s cap, Willard will be off the hook.”

“Do you really think the police will let him go?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, Jaine! That’s wonderful!” And for the first time since this mess began, I saw a smile on her face. “How can Willard and I ever thank you?”

Just seeing her smile was thanks enough. After my dismal failure as an L.A. Girlfriend, I was happy to finally bring joy to someone’s life.

“I know!” she said. “Let’s celebrate with some tea and homemade brownies.”

You’d think after last night’s flying dessert-a-thon I’d never be able to look at another brownie again, but you’d be wrong.

“Sure,” I said, as always unable to resist the lure of chocolate.

“Make yourself comfy, sweetheart,” she said, bustling off to the kitchen, “while I make the tea!”

Alone in the room, I got up to admire the Coxes’ stately Christmas tree in the corner, heavily laden with elaborate reindeer ornaments. With any luck, Willard would soon be home to celebrate his reindeer-themed Christmas.

I wandered over to the fireplace, where a single stocking hung from the mantel, embroidered with the name “Pumpkin.” Poor Pumpkin, I sighed. Clearly Ethel was having trouble letting go of her beloved pet.

I was just about to head back to the sofa when I noticed an airline ticket lying on the mantel. Snoop that I am, I picked it up and peeked at it. It was a round trip ticket to Bermuda, in Ethel’s name, leaving Christmas day.

How odd. Why would Ethel be going to Bermuda at a time like this? Maybe she had relatives there and was going for emotional support. Still, it was strange she’d be leaving Willard alone in his time of crisis.

And then I saw something else on the mantel, something that sent a chill down my spine. It was a brochure for a quaint bed and breakfast. It wasn’t the inn itself that jolted me. In fact, it looked like a very lovely place. No, what made the little hairs on my neck stand at attention was the name of the inn: The Claudia Jamison House.

Holy Moses. Could it be? Was Ethel Claudia Jamison?

At that moment I became aware of footsteps behind me. I whirled around to see Ethel coming at me—not with tea and brownies—but wielding one of Willard’s huge neon candy canes.

The last thing I noticed before it came crashing down on my skull was what Ethel was wearing:

A pastel sweat suit.

Just like Claudia Jamison.

I came to on the floor near the Christmas tree, my wrists and ankles bound tightly with packing twine, my head throbbing like a bongo drum.

Ethel was kneeling over me, putting the finishing touches on the twine around my ankles.

How wrong I’d been about Ethel. All along, I thought she was a helpless housefrau. The woman was about as helpless as a Sherman tank.

I tried to lift my head and set off a thousand drumbeats of pain.

“Oh, dear!” Ethel looked around, startled. “I didn’t realize you’d come to. You poor thing,” she said, clucking in sympathy, “your head must be pounding. I’d give you an aspirin, but you’ll be dead soon anyway. So why waste an aspirin?”

I gulped at this latest news bulletin, setting off a fresh wave of bongo beats. If indeed I was headed for my final reward, I’d be darned if I was going to go without a fight.

“So you killed Garth,” I said, stalling for time.

“Well, duh, as you young people say. Of course I did. Such fun pretending to be a roofer and loosening those shingles!”

“But why?”

“Because he killed Pumpkin. That was no accident. Garth ran over my poor baby on purpose. So naturally he had to die.”

“But I don’t understand. Why frame Willard for the murder?”

“Oh, Willard,” she said, with a dismissive wave. “I’m so tired of that man, always bossing me around. Gave me his lunch order every day like I was a waitress at a restaurant. I swear, I never want to cook another meal for him as long as I live.”

So Cathy Janken wasn’t the only one who’d wanted to dump her husband. I’d been pinning my suspicions on the wrong desperate housewife.

“What a pill!” Ethel grumbled. “Forty-three years of marriage and we went on the same dratted vacation every summer. Fishing on Lake Arrowhead. I hung around the cabin all day, bored silly, while he caught fish. And then I had to clean the stinky things.

“I begged him to take me places. All my life I’ve wanted to lie on the sand in Bermuda, but no, he’s so selfish. Everything’s got to be his way or no way.

“So you see, dear, I had to get rid of him.”

“Ever hear of a little thing called divorce?”

“Oh, no!” Ethel blinked, horrified. “I could never do that. It’s a sin, you know.”

Yikes. Murder and sending her husband to jail was okay, but divorce was a no-no. The woman had enough loose screws to open her own hardware store.

“I’d never kill Willard. I just wanted him out of the way. Besides, prison will be good for him. It’s time he learned to take orders from somebody else for a change.”

Our cozy chat was interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing in my purse.

“Don’t get up, sweetheart,” Ethel said. “I’ll see who it is. Ha ha. That was a joke.”

“I got it.” And yet, I wasn’t laughing.

Ethel scooted over to the sofa where I’d left my purse and checked out my caller ID.

“It’s the police.”

Great.
Now
they’re getting back to me.

“I’m afraid you won’t be returning this call,” she said. “Or any other calls, for that matter.”

She picked up a china tea cup from the coffee table and headed back to me.

“What a shame,” she sighed. “If only you hadn’t interfered. I didn’t mind killing Garth, but you seem like such a nice girl. I hate to have to kill you, too.”

“Then don’t. I swear, I won’t say a word to the cops. Honest. Garth was an awful man; he deserved to die. And as for Willard, hey, prison’s not so bad.”

“I wish I could believe you,” she said, kneeling at my side, “but I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Now drink this, sweetheart. I brewed it while you were sleeping.” She gently propped my head into a sipping position. “It’s some lovely Constant Comment tea, with a tad of rat poison.”

“Sounds tempting, but I’ll pass.”

“I really wish you’d drink it, dear. Otherwise I’ll have to bludgeon you to death with my candy cane, and I really hate getting my carpet all bloody. But I will if have to.”

“Just what do you intend to do with my body?”

“Oh, I’ll put it in the freezer till I get back from Bermuda. I’ll figure out something then.

“Bottoms up,” she said, holding the tea cup to my lips. “Just remember. If you don’t drink it, I’ll bash your head in. And that won’t be very pleasant, will it?”

No way was I going to open my mouth and drink this stuff. I had to do something to stop her.

“Okay,” I lied, “I’ll drink it. But can you grant me one last wish before I die?”

“That depends. What’s the wish?”

“I’d really love one of your brownies. They were so darn delicious.”

“How sweet of you to say so.” She blushed with pleasure. “It’s so nice to get a compliment for a change. I must’ve cooked 60,000 meals for Willard but did I ever get a thank you? No, I did not.”

“So can I have one?”

“I’m afraid they’re in the freezer.”

“Can’t you nuke one for me? And maybe heat up the tea? It looks sort of cold.”

“Well, okay. But after the brownie, then you promise you’ll die without a fuss?”

“Cross my heart.”

Much to my relief, she got to her feet and started off for the kitchen.

“Don’t even think of crying out for help while I’m gone,” she warned. “Otherwise I’m going to have to gag you.”

Damn. Plan A just went flying out the window.

As she skipped off to fix my Last Snack, my mind started racing. How the heck was I going to get out of this mess?

I craned my neck, looking for something sharp to cut the twine binding my wrists and ankles, but saw nothing.

Then I thought of another plan. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot I had. My head throbbing with every bump, I manage to roll myself behind the Christmas tree. Lucky for me, Ethel was not an expert in bondage. She’d bound me only at the wrists and ankles, which meant I could still bend my knees and elbows. And that gave me some degree of mobility. I had just managed to prop myself into a sitting position with my back up against the wall when Ethel returned with my brownie and poisoned tea.

“Oh, Jaine,” she sighed. “Aren’t you silly, trying to hide. I’m certain to find you.”

She looked around the room and then spotted me behind the tree, as I was hoping she would.

“There you are, you foolish girl!”

She started toward the Christmas tree.

This was it, the moment of truth.

I raised my knees to my chest and sent up a last desperate prayer to the heavens.

Get me through this, and I swear I’ll never have a food fight with a twelve-year-old or wrestle with a nun for as long as I live!

Then, with every ounce of strength in my body, I kicked the tree trunk.

For a terrifying fraction of a second, it looked like it wasn’t going to fall, but then my prayers were answered. Ethel’s eyes widened in shock as the tree toppled over, sending reindeer ornaments flying and pinning her underneath.

Now it was her turn to lie on the floor unconscious.

I scanned the wreckage for something sharp enough to cut twine. Not two feet away, I saw my instrument of escape. A shattered teacup, the one that had just a few seconds ago held my poisoned tea.

I maneuvered myself over to it, and managed to pick up a sharp shard of china. It wasn’t easy with my wrists bound together, but eventually I sawed through the twine on my ankles. Then I sprang to my feet and raced over to Ethel’s phone. Somehow I managed to punch 911 and scream for help.

Five minutes later, just as I was cutting through the twine on my wrists and the cops were banging at the door, Ethel regained consciousness.

She looked up at me, bewildered, from under the tree.

“That’s the police,” I told her.

She moaned softly.