Holly and Homicide (11 page)

“Every
dentist’s
maybe,” the woman scoffed. “It goes against the neighborhood covenant. Nothing is supposed to be hung from our homes except lights.”

“You know what, Ms. Spokesperson?” Chiffon replied cheerfully. “I checked into that, and because we have re-classified our property as a
business
, your covenant no longer applies. But to be totally honest, I was hoping everyone in Snowcap Village would share in my enthusiasm for Christmastime, and join in that childlike, Christmas morning joy for things like”—she gestured at the house—”candy and gingerbread.”

Ms. Spokesperson, as she’d been dubbed, was nonplussed at Chiffon’s response and glanced back at her minions for a rebuttal.

An elderly woman stared at the house and said, “The display
is
unusual, at least.”

“Yeah,” a white-haired man grumbled, “but so is finding
human remains
underneath your porch steps. And having the building inspector get strangled by your Christmas lights. The Goodwin estate has been through all that, too, this past week. You ask me, enough is enough.”

Did he mean to say that it was okay to endure a murder or two, but that he drew the line at ostentatious Christmas decorations? In any case, his proclamation stuck in my craw. “We’ll take everything down by the second Saturday
in January,” I said. “There are no flashing lights aimed at anyone’s windows, no blaring music or honking horns.”

“But you
are
stopping traffic,” Ms. Spokesperson pointed out.

“It’s all in good fun,” Ben added. “It’s not like we’re out to hurt anyone.”

“Absolutely we’re not,” Chiffon said. “So I’ll tell you what. If it would be over the top according to your general opinion, I’ll scale back on the lawn ornaments.”

“Lawn ornaments?”
Ben and I asked in unison.

“Something in addition to the sleigh?” I added.

“Yeah. Just a couple things.” She shrugged. “I was hoping to get inflatable elves, Santa, and maybe a miniature Santa’s workshop. Along with a big nutcracker.”

There wasn’t a nutcracker in the world that was big enough to work on Chiffon’s head, I mused uncharitably.

“No!” at least four of the group of neighbors cried at once.

“Does everyone feel that way?” Chiffon asked the assembly on the sidewalk.

They all swiftly voted down the idea of any inflatable decorations. “This cheesy-looking junk you’ve slapped on the outside of the house is a big enough eyesore as it is,” the grouchy man added.

“Well. You’ve certainly made
your
opinion clear enough.” Chiffon sniffed. “Tell you what. We’re throwing an open house tomorrow night. The entire neighborhood is invited.”

I couldn’t maintain my poker face at this news. “We
are?”
I asked, incredulous.

“Yes, indeedy. We’ll put up flyers downtown. We’ll have
hors d’oeuvres, wine, cocoa, and tons of candy.” Her face lit up.
“And
, in the place of the inflatable elves and so on, I’m herewith giving all you nice people a challenge: Come make snowmen and snow animals in the front yard of the inn’s grounds.”

“I don’t know if there’s enough snow,” a fifty-something man said thoughtfully. “Is it all right if I cart in some extra snow from my front yard?”

“All the better!” Chiffon replied. “Everyone here, plus all of your kids, can get started anytime, and we’ll officially view your creations tomorrow night, at the party. Which will start at …let’s say seven
P.M.
and end no later than ten, seeing as tomorrow’s a school night.”

Ben and I exchanged surprised glances; how bizarre that Chiffon’s crazy but creative brain could concoct the all-time tacky Christmas display on the one hand, yet also pop out the idea of a combination block party/snow-sculpture contest. The mob-in-the-making soon quickly and happily headed back to their homes, and my own spirits lifted, as well.

The following day, to everyone’s delight—especially
Henry’s—Chiffon’s idea was working magnificently. Inviting everyone to create snowmen and snow critters in the front lawn had been a huge hit. Henry, Audrey, Chiffon, Wendell, and Mikara periodically took turns bringing out cups of cocoa and chatting up the neighbors who dropped by the property to build snow figures. For such a serious, nonmaternal type, Mikara proved to be surprisingly terrific with children and was looking happy
for the first time since her sister’s murder. She supplied the kids with various vegetables to augment the snowmen, and branches to serve as antlers for the “snow reindeer” that a trio of middle-schoolers built. The creations used up every bit of untamped-down snow in front, but the nearby neighbors got into the spirit and periodically supplied us with cartfuls or sledfuls of additional snow.

That night, Henry got those same neighbors’ permission to run floodlights across the sweeping expanse of the front yard; the dozens of snowmen and snow animals built by the townspeople were utterly delightful. Mikara and Chiffon had managed to employ an excellent catering crew, and Audrey did her usual magnificent job of organizing a big party. Wendell, Audrey, and Chiffon acted as the primary party hosts—not unlike a three-person family, with Wendell glued to Audrey’s side. Henry was taking a slight backseat in hosting duties, even though he was technically in charge. The guests were quite clearly merely tolerating Wendell, who had amassed a huge debt of acrimony over many years, but at least no blatant hostility was evident.

A woman from yesterday’s neighborhood brigade excused herself from a friendly conversation with Ben Orlin and another couple to join me at the snack table. Audrey and I had decided to put our new eggnog recipe to good use, and we’d rented an enormous punch bowl to fill with the creamy concoction.

“This was such a great idea,” the woman said to me.

“Yes, it really was.”

“How odd that the same person who dreamt up such a god-awful outdoor display could have come up with it.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “The human mind is quite a mystery, isn’t it?”

She laughed, too, and added, “As they say, there’s no accounting for taste.” She lifted her chin to return Henry’s smile of greeting, as he crossed the room and joined Ben in conversation. “It’s nice to see that Ben Orlin and Henry Goodwin have become friendly, after all these years.”

“They once weren’t, you mean?”

“Oh, well, they grew up together, but were kept at a distance. Everyone says that’s because of Ben’s father. He worked as a master carpenter on this house over the years and was always very conscious of not being in the same social class as the Goodwins. So, from what I gather, Ben was told he couldn’t be friends with Henry. Which just seems so sad, don’t you think? I’m roughly their age, and back when we were all kids, Snowcap Village was so tiny! You
had
to find a way to be friends with your neighbors, because there just plain weren’t enough people around to be choosy.”

Times must indeed have changed; Snowcap had been plenty “choosy” when it came to welcoming Steve and me. That thought darkened my mood, and I soon had to shake off an image of Angie’s body by the bridge. Forcing a smile, I said, “When you think about it, that’s always the case. None of us has the kind of time to foster animosity.”

She held my gaze for a moment. “You’re absolutely right.” She paused. “In fact, I have to admit that you and Chiffon and this gathering tonight have altered my opinion. I hope the Snowcap Inn is a great success. I really do.”

The sound system was now playing a recording of dogs
barking the notes to “Jingle Bells,” and I told the woman honestly that her words were “music to my ears.” I decided to make it my goal to try to get to know each of the seventy or so guests at the party. I started purposefully mingling and joined two couples sitting in the den, but was distracted when Cameron—overdressed but killer handsome in his tuxedo—took a seat beside me. “Evening, Erin. I’m starting to get the impression that you’re avoiding me.”

“Not at all. I’m simply trying to meet and greet all our guests.”

“Ah, of course. You’re working the room. Good for you.” He grinned at me. “Now that you mention it, I think
I’m
going to make an effort to get to know your illustrious Mr. Sullivan.”

I glanced at Steve, who was visible through the doorway, chatting with some people in the next room. Catching my eye, he started to smile, until he spotted Cameron sitting beside me. Sullivan promptly turned his back on us.

B
efore I could give another thought to Steve’s reaction, a thirtyish woman spilled red wine on the Oriental rug a few feet away from me. I excused myself to grab the closest bottle of seltzer water, one of several that we’d strategically placed throughout the house for this very purpose. We chatted a little as I doused the would-be stain, and working together, we soaked up the wine with napkins. I assured her that she should get another glass for herself and let me finish dabbing up the last signs of the spill.

Chiffon, meanwhile, flounced over to claim my vacated seat and said to Cameron, “Hi. You work for Wendell, don’t you?”

“Yes, and you’re one of the co-owners of the Snowcap Inn.”

“That’s right. I’m Chiffon Walters. You’ve probably seen some of my videos, or heard my recordings.”

“I’m not up on pop music. Sorry. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, though.”

Much as I was enjoying eavesdropping on Cameron and Chiffon’s conversation, Wendell, looking a little soused, walked over to me and bent down a little. “My, my. You’re a designer
and
a cleaning woman. Do you do windows?”

With difficulty, I mustered a smile. He held out his hand and helped me to my feet. “Great party, Erin. You should try the eggnog.”

“Thanks. I will,” I replied.

“You’re almost as tall as the Woolf sisters, aren’t you?” he asked, looking up at me. Although he’d taken a wide stance, he was weaving on his feet. “It feels like either you’re getting taller, or I’m getting shorter.”

“I haven’t grown lately. But I
am
wearing heels.”

“That’s a relief. I was starting to worry I was turning into one of Santa’s elves.” He laughed heartily, and I managed a small chuckle, to be polite.

He wandered off, and I returned my attention to Chiffon and Cameron. “You don’t have a napkin,” Chiffon was telling him, practically sitting in his lap now. “Let me give you this one. It’s got my private cell phone number on it. You can call me anytime you want.”

He looked at the napkin, but didn’t take it from her. “That’s not going to happen, Ms. Walters, but thank you.” He rose and said, “Excuse me.”

She glared at him as he walked away. Although I tried to disguise the fact that I’d overheard their exchange, Chiffon immediately approached me. “Your ex is really hot. But I guess he thinks he’s too old for me. Can’t blame a girl for trying, as they say.”

“Better luck next time,
as they say.”

“Oh, it’s hardly like I need any luck, Erin.” Suddenly, there wasn’t an ounce of the harmless bimbo in her voice or countenance; perhaps alcohol had dislodged her ditsy routine. “I simply enjoy flirting. My dance card’s pretty full, actually. Henry Goodwin and I are dating.”

“He’s at least a dozen years older than Cameron is, you realize.”

“I like
mature
men.”

The implication was that my ex was immature. The remark rankled. In the corner of my vision, I could see Mikara and Henry chatting like the best of friends. “I wonder if your dating Henry bothers Mikara at all. The two of them used to be engaged.”

Chiffon shrugged. “Everyone knows that.” Chiffon turned and gazed at Mikara and Henry. “She’s fine with it. We all know it’s nothing serious. And Mikara and I are hardly in the same league.”

“Meaning what?”

She hesitated. “Much as I hate to say this, she’s, you know, kind of old and tired.” She giggled, as if the airhead in her had returned. Her small mood swing made me
wonder if she was cagier—and more formidable—than I’d considered her to be.

“Were you friends with Angie at all?”

She gave me a slight shrug. “We were acquaintances, really, but we were friendly enough. I can’t believe someone killed her.”

“I know. It’s horrifying.”

“I can’t believe anybody I know would be capable of murder. It had to be some pervert looking for a random victim. Some itinerant who wandered into town. And who’s probably long gone.”

“I wish I believed that. But who would come up here, the outskirts of town, hide out till someone happened to walk by the property’s little bridge, and
then
kill the person? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Again, Chiffon shrugged, now looking around the room as if blatantly searching for better company than my own. “But it’s better than the alternative …than thinking one of us could have killed Angie Woolf.” She grinned at Henry. “Speaking of dearest Henry, I think I’ll go see how he’s doing.” She trotted toward him.

Cameron, I noted, had made good on his word and was now talking one-on-one with Steve. Things didn’t appear to be going well, however, judging by body English; Steve’s arms were crossed and he was frowning at the floor. Regardless, my worrying about their conversation was keeping me from being a festive cohost. It was time for me to mingle with more neighbors. I saw a pair of couples I hadn’t met and started to head toward them. Audrey, however, intercepted me. She grabbed my elbow and pulled me into a conversation with some obviously
wealthy friends of Wendell’s. Several minutes later, I began to realize that I was going to have to scale down my meet-everyone goal. When I finally excused myself and turned around, Steve was standing there, waiting to talk to me.

“I have to tell you honestly, Erin,” he said into my ear, “Cameron’s a player …the type of guy who’ll step on anyone to get ahead. He’s like a young Wendell Barton, only worse. And he’s definitely more dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Cameron?”

Steve merely nodded.

“Cameron’s driven, highly ambitious, and enjoys amassing power. But he’s not what I’d call a
player
, and he’s certainly not
dangerous
. He’s basically a nice guy.”