Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (30 page)

    
“I think we had better get together tomorrow to talk about everything you guys have learned.” Dad’s voice was tight. “Lunch here, maybe.”

    
“You’re lucky I’m not hauling you both downtown,” McGowan made his position clear.

    
“They know that. Lunch tomorrow.” Dad rose, and the two men decided on a time as they walked to the front door.

    
“Not good,” I said.

    
“Not good at all,” Mom agreed.

    
“I knew we should have turned over the discs.”

    
“Please.”

    
“I mean, in my heart, I knew.” Not even a night of throwing up nitrobenzene-laced candy had felt this bad.

CHAPTER 34

    
The next morning, the mood at my parents’ house could only be described as grim.

    
Dad had slipped out of bed without waking Mom. His cereal bowl and coffee cup were in the sink, and we could tell from the distant whine of his circular saw that he was in his shop. Mom said his mood didn’t bode well for the guestroom window seat he was building for her, and she suspected the storage compartment wouldn’t be getting the removable bins she had requested.

    
“Fine, two can play this game.” She checked to see if she had the makings for tofu stir-fry, knowing Dad considered tofu to be the same as eating Styrofoam packing peanuts.

    
Nancy called just as I finished blending a fruit smoothie. Mom put her on speakerphone, so I could listen in.

    
“Amanda, I just heard. Are you ok?”

    
Mom assured her that she was.

    
“A break-in. I can’t imagine. You should get an alarm or a dog or both.”

    
Mom took a sip of coffee. I took a sip of smoothie. We let Nancy ramble on. It was easier that way.

    “The wife of one of Oscar’s lawyer friends filled me in on everything. Dreadful woman, such a gossip and very thick ankles for a woman her size. She said Jack was some kind of sexual deviant, a peeping Tom or worse, and she’s never liked the way he looked at her.” A derisive snort punctuated this.

    
Mom raised an eyebrow, but Nancy was off again.

    
“She also said the police had Saul’s discs, which I just Can Not Believe.”

    
Mom was testing her skillet-wielding shoulder, which seemed to be in fine working order this morning, and missed her cue to respond.

    
“Amanda! The discs? Jack? Are you there?”

    
“I’m here. The police have the discs.”

    
“But how did you get them, and why didn’t you tell me? I thought we were in this together, Amanda.”

    
News to us. In what?

    
“I mean, true, I don’t have as much to lose as you, your husband still being very much alive and all. Still, I would’ve hoped you would have let me in on the fact that you had the discs and were planning to destroy them.”

    
Nancy still thought Saul had been playing his emotional blackmail games with Mom, and Mom should have destroyed the discs to protect her marriage and/or reputation? Really!

    
Another possibility occurred to me. Nancy might just be feigning outrage to cover up the fact she had sent the discs herself.

    
“I had the discs less than twenty-four hours,” Mom explained, taking Nancy’s ranting in stride. “Never even opened them. I can’t imagine who sent them to me, but I’ll tell you one thing, I’ve never been unfaithful to my husband.”

    
“Is he there?” Nancy whispered.

    
“What? No.”

    
“Do you think he heard us?”

    
“Nancy, he’s not here.”

    
“Call me back when you can talk.” She clicked off.

    
Mom sighed and finished her coffee.

    
“What are you doing this morning?” she asked.

    
“Working out, and finishing up a concept board. I’ll be back here for the inquisition. You need me to pick up anything?”

    
She didn’t. I think she just wanted to be alone for a while. Being on the outs with my Dad makes her edgy.

    
She handed me a to-go cup for the rest of my smoothie and gave me a ride home.

    
When I called a little while later, I could hear the dejection in Mom’s voice over the speakerphone. “Is he still mad?” I asked.

    
“He’s not happy, that’s for sure.”

    
I could picture her in her office, die-hard multi-tasker that she is, sorting through bills, printing out invoices. She would be dressed to entertain guests, of course, maybe a little twin set and skirt combo, lipstick on, every hair in place.

    
I was at my loft, about ten minutes away, doing intervals on my elliptical trainer. By the time we hung up, my labored breathing sounded like something you would expect to pay $9.99 a minute to hear. If you were into that sort of thing, which we, of course, were not.

    
“Did he say anything?”

    
“Not a word.”

    
“Ouch,” I said.

    
“See you at lunch.”

    
“I guess.”

    
Knowing I couldn’t put it off any longer, I rode my bike over to my parents, both to get in some additional exercise and to prove to my family that the bike wasn’t just another fitness fad I had gotten into and would soon drop, although it kind of was.

    
Birmingham is so hilly, even a short ride is a major workout. Too major for the pleasant little jaunts I had envisioned. Plus, I had allowed the salesman talk me into getting a top-of-the-line road bike (necessary to accommodate my petite frame, was the line I fell for) with clipless pedals. If you’ve never tried riding with clipless pedals, take it from me, it ain’t easy.

    
You need special shoes that lock into the pedals, shoes that can’t be unlocked with the normal, instinctive pulling-up motion you’ve handled well all your life. I could now manage a short ride every now and then. Besides, riding the bike also provided me with a way to put off seeing my father as long as I could.

    
Luckily this route took me by some of the most spectacularly decorated houses in Birmingham, including some Mom and I had done ourselves. At the Powell’s, we had flocked their seventeen-foot Fraser Fir with a mixture of water and no-dyes, no-perfumes washing powder. That thing looked like something growing wild in the snowy foothills of the Smokey Mountains, absolutely beautiful. And for the Changs, we had done a festive combination of Christmas (their version of Santa is called Dun Che Lao Ren or Christmas Old Man) and the Chinese New Year.

    
I concentrated on taking deep cleansing breaths of the mild December air (hard to believe Christmas was less than a week away) and cleared my mind of everything except the soft breeze stirring the red-ribboned wreaths that hung from each of the Farr’s upstairs windows. Slowly, my dark mood lifted.

    
By the time I got to my parents’, I was almost optimistic about the upcoming meeting. I rode up just as Bridget came along the walk from the house, and I yelled for her to catch me and my clipped on shoes, just in case. She grabbed where she could, and together we managed a clumsy stop that left us both in relatively upright positions.

    
“Get regular pedals!” she demanded as I got off. “It isn’t giving up. It’s accepting the reality that you suck on this thing.”

    
“I know.” I pulled clogs from my backpack. “But all the cool kids have clipless.”

    
“Jacob has clipless?”

    
“Isn’t he coolest?” I said with mostly pretend adoration.

    
She rolled her eyes.

    
“Did you see Dad?” I asked.

    
“Yeah, who left his cake out in the rain?”

    
“Still mad, huh? It’s your mother’s fault.”

    
“Oh she’s my mother now? Wait till you see them. They’re both acting completely bizarre. Very polite with each other. ‘Alex would you like some iced tea?’ ‘Not right now, thank you.’” She shivered.

    
“Did they say anything about me?”

    
Bridget smiled. “They didn’t have to. You’re so dead.”

    
Sibling rivalry was still alive and kicking in our relationship. In addition, our squabbling drove our parents nuts - always a plus.

    
“Thanks for your concern.” I headed for the door.

    
“Come on, I’m sorry. Anything I can do?”

    
“Take my side for once.”

    
“Anything but that. I’ve got to get to work.”

    
“You’re not staying? What if I get The Look?”

    
My father has a look that can reduce a witness under cross-examination to tears. And we’re talking male witnesses, here. Hardened criminals. The Look even humbled Mom.

    
“I’d say it’s pretty much a given,” Bridget smirked.

    
“Great. Just great.” I hadn’t gotten The Look since April of ’92, when it was revealed that I had financed my spring break trip to New Orleans by not renewing my car insurance.  I still have night sweats.

    
“Your detective friend will protect you.” Bridget pointed to the curb.

    
McGowan, carrying a black leather briefcase, was getting out of a ‘68 Mustang. “What Dad’s going to do to you, I can’t believe he would want any witnesses.”

    
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

    
“I’m going. I’m going.”

    
Before heading up the walk I paused to admire the twenty-foot wreath that hung from the chimney, illuminated at night by a spotlight tucked among the gardenia bushes. The eaves were draped with the white lights mandated for historical houses, plush red velvet bows punctuated the pine garland draping the porch wall and paper luminaries lined the sidewalk. This was what Christmas should look like.

    
I sat on the front steps and changed my shoes, watching as Bridget chatted for a sec with the detective. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I noticed the way Bridget tossed her hair when she laughed. And I noticed McGowan noticing it, too. Interesting in a sort of unsettling way. Bridget had been divorced for barely two years. She didn’t need to rush into anything.

    
They said their goodbyes, and McGowan approached, looking a little calmer and quite attractive in charcoal pants and a crisp white shirt. Attractive for a Yankee, I mean.

    
“Nice car.” I stood up.

    
“Thanks, it’s a Mustang.”

    
“I know. A three-ninety GT.”

    
“You girls know your cars,” he said.

    
“Our Daddy brought us up right.”

    
“It’s your mother I’m concerned about. The two of you have been up to no good.”

    
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    
“Your wide-eyed innocent look works better than any polygraph. ‘Cause I know there’s nothing innocent about you.”

    
I gasped. “How can you say that? I’m as innocent as a lamb. As pure as driven snow. As good as…”

    
“Chloe.”

    
“Yes?”

    
“You’re talking in clichés. You stalling just so you don’t have to go in?”

    
“Yes.”

    
“We’re going in.”

    
“Cover me.”

    
Dad actually seemed pretty cheerful, at least while he was greeting McGowan.

    
“Is that you, Max?” Mom came in from the back porch. “Thank you for joining us.”

    
In gracious hostess mode, she reminded me of a mint julep - all sweet and Southern, but with a kick you don’t see coming. Apparently McGowan didn’t drink on duty.

    
“Hello, Mrs. Carstairs. What’ve you been up to lately?” he asked.

    
Mom looked at Dad. Dad looked at me. I looked at my clogs.

    
“Why don’t we talk over lunch?” Mom suggested.

    
We moved into my parents’ sunny eat-in kitchen, where the table was already set and a mound of chicken - not tofu - and crisp-cooked veggies waited for us in the wok.