Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (29 page)

    
At the house, I dropped my purse on the kitchen’s island and went straight for the wine glasses. Mom looked as tired as I did. Neither of us spoke.

    
I was about to offer her a glass when she stopped mid-step and stared at the floor. I followed her gaze and noticed a footprint. Had I tracked something in on her freshly mopped floor? Wouldn’t have been the first time.

    
But aggravation was Mom’s usual reaction. This was different.

    
I looked closer. It was only an outline of a shoe not a full print, bigger than my foot. Had Dad been home?

    But even as the thought formed, I knew my father hadn’t made the prints. The size was wrong, and the hint of tread belonged to one of those rugged wet-dry sandals. Dad didn’t own sandals like that.

    
Almost unwillingly, I raised my eyes a few inches. Sure enough, there was another print not far from the first. And another. I counted seven in all, as I followed their progress across the kitchen and received another jolt when I realized the last one disappeared into the pantry.

    
One wall of Mom’s kitchen is filled with lovely old built-in drawers and cabinets, as well as a pantry that’s wide but not deep. You would only be in the pantry with the door closed for one reason - to hide.

    Then I noticed the knob on the pantry door turning.

CHAPTER 33

    
I stood, transfixed, watching the knob slowly turn, my brain unable to process what my eyes were telling it. Someone was in the house. Someone who had been hiding, but who now thought it safe to come out.

    
It was the telephone that jolted us into action, the jangle of the ringer especially loud against the suspense-charged silence.

    
Amanda and I both jumped, and I think the person in the pantry did as well. The knob paused a moment, and I heard a tiny gasp of surprise behind the door. Mom headed toward the front door, and I headed toward the back. Instead of going anywhere, we bumped into each other—a mistake that cost us the split second of opportunity we had to escape.

    
Mom pulled me down behind the island, and we crouched, listening to the unmistakable whisper of pantry hinges swinging open. We were poised for action, although neither of us knew what that action should be. The center island stood between us and the phone. To get to the front door, we had to pass the pantry.

    
“Back door,” I mouthed.

    
“Deadbolt,” Mom mouthed back.

    
Ah. Good point. No time to fumble with a key. Think! I ordered myself.

    
Right then we had an advantage. We knew the intruder’s location but he, from the size of the footprints, didn’t know ours. I wracked my brain for any self-defense moves I knew. Stop, drop and roll? Probably not a good idea.

    
The person on the other side of the island seemed to be listening as intently as we were. We heard the answering machine click on, and Dad’s voice asked the caller to leave a message. As quietly as I could I eased open one of the island’s cabinet doors and surveyed the contents. Angela’s voice now filled the room.

    
“Mrs. C. It’s me!” She waited then sang, “Hell-oooo? Tony said I had to call, so that’s what I’m doing. I know you’re trying to help, but I’m fine. Stop worrying.”

    I felt around in the cabinet, willing Angela to keep talking. My hands encountered casserole dishes, Tupperware bowls, cookie sheets. Nothing that would do any real damage. In the middle cabinet there was olive oil, various cans and jars. Useless.

    
Angela said something about working on her book.

    
Don’t hang up, I begged silently.

    
She hung up.

    
Mom nudged my shoulder. In the cabinet closest to her, she had found the five-inch cast iron skillet she used to make corn bread.  If she could get enough force behind it, this would make a pretty handy weapon. Trouble was, she couldn’t quickly pull out the skillet without a cacophony of crashing glass, stainless steel and ceramic.

    
I prayed that whoever was in the house would think Mom had gone upstairs to the bedroom or bathroom. But there had been no footsteps overhead. No rush of running water. In fact, there had been no sounds anywhere, and I could feel the intruder’s brain working it out in his head, growing suspicious of the strained silence that filled the house.

    
His shadow stretched across the kitchen floor as he moved toward us. Mom’s hand closed around her weapon, and after a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed mine, ignoring her look of disdain.

    
Again, a sound startled both of us. This time it was Josie coming in through her doggie door, the innocuous jingle of her tags absurd in such profound quiet. Luckily she was distracted by our visitor.

    
Miniature Schnauzers aren’t as visually imposing as, say, a Doberman, but I knew she would protect Mom if her life were threatened. The only problem was, Josie didn’t know Mom was in danger. So she did what I’d always suspected she would do if our house was broken into. She greeted our guest with happy whimpers, danced eagerly on the kitchen floor, and rolled over to invite anyone who was interested to scratch her tummy. She was killing him alright - with kindness.

    
And how was the intruder taking all this? Impassively according to his shadow. Then I heard him growl, “I’ll get you, Mrs. Carstairs, and your little dog, too.”

    I watched in dismay as two shadow arms reached toward Josie, who cried in pleasure thinking she was in for some serious belly rubbing.

    
Mom and I went into action. Without a second thought, I jumped from my hiding place and fired my weapon - a stinging blast of butter-flavored non-stick spray right into the intruder’s eyes.

    
Direct hit!

    
At the same time, Mom tore the skillet free of the other dishes, the crash loud and violent, and with a wood chopping motion, brought down with all her might five pounds of cast iron onto the intruder’s head.

    
Jack Lassiter went sprawling.

    Josie yelped and hightailed it back out her doggie door. So much for her status as watchdog.

    
Blood pooled under Jack’s head at an alarming rate. Had we killed him? Should I feel his pulse? Elevate his head? Perform CPR?

    
Like hell I would! The man had bought me drinks under false pretenses.

    
I grabbed my purse and took off with a speed and dexterity that surprised me. Mom was faster, even more surprising. I’m ashamed to admit a strangled scream tore from my throat. As Mom fumbled with the front door latch, I expected any second to feel Jack’s bloody hand snaking around my neck, his hot breath against my cheek or a bullet rip into my spine.

    
It wasn’t until we were safely in the Cadillac, doors locked and barreling down the driveway that I started to feel safe. I fumbled for my cell phone and called 911 as Mom parked across the street. With the engine running, the car in drive, we watched the house.

    
I told the operator what had happened as I fought to control my voice, but I was seriously freaked and Mom was, too, her hands trembling on the steering wheel. I checked the back seat, irrationally terrified that Jack’s bloody form would rise behind us.

    
The 911 operator, her name was Paula, kept us company until two police cars roared up. She tried to get us to go to a neighbor’s house, but Mom wanted to make sure Jack didn’t get away.

    
What Paula thought of our claim that one of our city’s assistant district attorneys had tried to kill us, she wouldn’t say. We hung up with her promise to call Dad and our sincere thanks for her calm, gentle manner. I envisioned one of Mom’s homemade pineapple upside down cakes in her future.

    
We gave one set of officers, Brubaker and Conner, our statements as the other team, Dawson and Jemison, entered my parents’ house. An ambulance arrived. Neighbors trickled out of their homes. Gina from next door brought me a sweater and Mom a fleece hoodie. Before I knew it, I felt Dad’s arms around me.

    
It was almost one a.m. before our house emptied of everyone who wasn’t a Carstairs by birth or by nature - me, my parents, Bridget and Lily, completely wired, in her pjs.

    
Very protective of my mother, Dad tucked an antique quilt around her feet and rubbed them gently as she reclined on the living room sofa.

    
Mom suppressed a shudder. “Is the kitchen clean?” I knew she meant the floor.

    
Bridget nodded. “I did it myself. One of the cops said Lassiter’s got a hell of a knot on his head. You really let him have it.”

    
There was no mistaking the admiration in Bridget’s voice, and I could tell Mom was pleased.

    
“I didn’t exactly escape unscathed.” She gestured toward an ice pack on her shoulder.

    
It wasn’t until the excitement had worn off and the adrenaline had stopped surging that she had realized her shoulder was throbbing dully. Thankfully, it wasn’t dislocated.

    
“I can’t believe y’all pulled it off.” Bridget’s voice again filled with amazement. “You smoked out a killer. “Had y’all suspected Jack?”

    
“He was on our list,” I lied.

    
“Along with about six other people,” Mom admitted.

    
“Yeah, but we must’ve done something right. We forced his hand and got him to make a mistake. And we were there to nab him.” I yawned. “Now that we know the killer it’s just a matter of filling in blanks - a piece of cake.”

    
Mom didn’t share my confidence.  “Jack Lassiter? Why?”

    
“It has to have something to do with Robin. It just has to,” I said.

    
“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Dad interjected. “What we have is a suspect in an alleged breaking and entering. That’s a long way from proving he’s a murderer.”

    
“Alleged? He broke. He entered. There was nothing alleged about that,” I said.

    
“There is till we have all the facts,” Dad stated.

    
Talk about a buzz kill. But before any of us could reply, a knock on the front door made us jump.

    
“Who in the world could that be?” Mom asked as Dad went to the foyer.

    
Max McGowan led their way back. “Sorry, but I thought you guys would be up, and I figured you would want to be informed. Lassiter’s conscious, but he’s not saying much.”

    
“Lawyered up, didn’t he?” I crowed.

    
“Not quite.” McGowan wasn’t impressed. “Jack doesn’t think he needs a lawyer. Says he was looking for evidence related to two murders, acting on an anonymous tip.” It suddenly occurred to me that McGowan was controlling his temper. “Evidence you two were keeping from the police.”

    
I could feel Dad’s eyes on me, but I didn’t return his gaze. “Once you see what’s on those discs, you’ll learn the real reason Jack was after them.”

    
McGowan’s eyes narrowed. “What discs? I told Lassiter if you two had those discs you would have called me immediately.”

    “Where are they, Amanda?” Dad asked.

    
Mom told him in her office on her desk.

    
We waited in uncomfortable silence while he got the discs from upstairs and gave them to McGowan.

    
“Lassiter said he entered the house only after seeing signs of a break-in, a broken lock on the back porch. He was just making sure everyone was ok. When he heard you two coming in, he thought you might be the intruder, so he hid in the pantry.”

    
“He threatened Mom! He said he would get her and her little dog, too!”

    
“Not according to him. He said he only wanted the discs and to tell you two that Saul and Oscar’s deaths were police matters and you should stay out of it.”

    A fact that seemed all too clear now. What impact would our mistake have on the case? We had been too cocky, too careless.

    
“I’d just about ruled you two out as suspects,” Detective McGowan said. “But now, I’m not so sure. You’re either completely brainless or in this up to your eyeballs.”

    
“Max…” Dad interrupted.

    
“No, Alex, they compromised my investigation.”

    
There was nothing Dad could say to that, and I was sick knowing I’d put him in such a bad position. I couldn’t blame McGowan for being angry, either. Terms like “chain of evidence” and “due process of law” were just catchphrases to Mom and me, plot points in our favorite TV shows. Dad and McGowan dealt with the realities of these ideas every day.