Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (7 page)

    
“So they’re saying it’s murder?” I asked.

    
“They’re starting an investigation - a quiet one. It could still be a bizarre accident, but given the whole thing with the hand and the rat, nobody’s taking any bets on it.”

    
As much as I wanted to speculate about Saul’s death now that we had some real information, we just didn’t have the time to spare. Nancy’s 8,500-square foot house had to be decorated, top to bottom, in just over two days. It was get-busy time.

    
Miss a client deadline? Over my DB!

CHAPTER 7

    
“Want to know what I think?” Cassie spoke around the straight pins she was holding in her teeth. “I think, in your heart, you’re not really single. You’re looking at this as a forced, but temporary exile till Jacob comes to his senses.”

    
This was her take on why I left Saul’s party with my parents rather than some sexy stranger.

    
“Well, there was that little matter of a dead body in the foyer,” I protested, feeding her more ribbon to be pinned to the mantle’s evergreen swag.

    
“Excuses, excuses.”

    
Across the room my mother shot us a dark look, the reason behind it hard to read. Was she irritated that we were being flip about Saul’s death? Were we gabbing too much and working too little? Did I sound like I was on the prowl, trying to pick up men at parties? Or did she think Cassie should know better than to talk with pins in her mouth? Whatever the reason, Mom had been in a mood all morning.

    
Yes, we had tons of work in front of us. And yes, we were behind schedule. But every job brings with it some kind of challenge (severed hand, anyone?), and Mom always manages to pull them off. I didn’t think the Browley’s house would be any different, even if Nancy Browley had asked for a blanket of fake snow on her front yard. Mom hates fake snow.

    
The theme for the Browleys’ house was simple enough - Santa Claus. Since Oscar dressed up like the jolly old fat man every year, it was a natural. And in typical Amanda Carstairs fashion, the décor would be over the top and fabulous.

    
Scattered throughout the house were three thousand Santas of all shapes and sizes, from the fur draped Old World Santas, to nesting dolls painted like Russia’s Ded Moroz or Grandfather Frost to France’s Papa Noel. And that wasn’t even counting the life-sized version in an antique sleigh on the front lawn. The faux-snow covered front lawn.

    
Of course, Mom could’ve over-ruled the idea. Her name doesn’t go on any design unless she’s completely happy with it. But Nancy had pleaded and had seemed so stressed that Mom had relented. A good designer knows how to work with a client’s vision.

    
Cassie took the last pin out of her mouth and smiled. “Not that I’m one to talk. I can’t remember the last time I had a boyfriend around Christmas. Too bad Jacob can’t set me up with one of his architect buddies. My dad would love that. Being an architect was his dream job growing up.”

    
Jacob was not a subject I wanted to discuss. Our breakup was going a little too well for my taste.

    
“Women are going to seem very dull to Jacob after me,” I had complained to Mom when we had first decided to see other people. “Bigger breasted, sure, but very dull.”

    
“Well, for Heaven’s sake, don’t tell him that,” she had said. “You’ll only strengthen his resolve.”

    
Trouble was, I thought Jacob was a keeper. What else could you call a man who grows his own basil, makes his own pesto and freezes single-serving portions in ice cube trays?

    
“Gay?” suggested my mother, ever helpful.

    
“Not gay,” I had insisted. And this had been confirmed by my friend Reggie, who had pronounced Jacob hopelessly heterosexual. Said it kind of snotty, too, like my man wasn’t cool enough to join such an exclusive club.  “He’s a nice guy, Mom. A down-to-earth nice guy like Dad.”

    
I wasn’t ready to give up on Jacob. As his workout partner, I had given him abs of steel. As his decorator, I had glazed two rooms in his house and tiled a bathroom. I had gotten him into his first pair of flat-front khakis, increased his sense of humor by 25% and broken him of his embarrassing habit of going “Woo-hoo!” every time he saw cleavage. A significant investment had been made in the man, and if any woman was going to reap the rewards, it was going to be me.

    
Now if I could just get him on board, I’d be all set. I glanced in the mirror over the Browley’s fireplace. Perhaps if I went half a shade blonder with my highlights.

    
“Who has time for romance this time of year anyway?” I asked Cassie, more to distract myself than anything else. “There’s too much to do. Christmas is like three weeks away, and I’ve barely started my shopping.”

    
“Shocking,” Mom said as she arranged antique papier-mâché Santas on a mahogany coffee table.

    
“Oh, and I suppose yours has been done for months,” I retorted.

    
“Not months.” She smiled. “Month, as in one.”

    
I looked to Cassie for support.

    
“Sorry. I finished mine last weekend.”

    
“What’s the fun in that?” I demanded. “Where’s the stress? The last-minute panic? The impulse buys? That’s what Christmas is all about.”

    
“Says the girl who has given personal training gift certificates the last two years in a row,” Mom countered.

    
“People love those.” I said. “And we could all stand to get healthier. Besides, I’ve gotten Dad’s gift.”

    
We always went in together on Dad’s gift, and Mom had already gotten it. She wasn’t impressed.

    
“I’m all for procrastination,” Cassie said, “but Dad’s in Louisiana, so it’s easier to do my shopping here before I head down.”

    
“What does your father do, dear?” Mom asked absently.

    
Given her mood, I wasn’t about to tease her, but she did sound an awful lot like her own mother: “Now tell me, dear, who are your people?”

    
“He’s the manager of a savings and loan, but in a good way.”

    
“There’s a bad way?” I asked.

    
“Well, you know, all those scandals and bankruptcies. Nothing like that ever happened in New Bedford. Typical small southern town.”

    
“It’s nice that you can make it home for the holidays.” Mom unwrapped more Santas.

    
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Seems like the whole town comes over to celebrate with Dad. He still lives in the big old house I grew up in. Mom, too, of course.”

     Mom arched her eyebrow at me.

     “We sing carols and open gifts on Christmas Eve. That way, on Christmas Day, we can just enjoy each other’s company and pig out.”

    
“Sounds lovely, dear,” I said, taking the words right out of Mom’s mouth. She was so not ready to be teased this morning.

    
“It’s great.” Cassie sighed. “Simple, you know?”

    
I thought of the work ahead of us and all the money the Browleys were lavishing on their Christmas. Simple sounded heavenly.

    My mother’s thoughts seemed to be running along the same lines. “I know.”

    
We broke for lunch around noon, and Cassie left to make other floral deliveries. Over sandwiches at a local deli, I broached the subject of Saul’s death to see if that’s what was bugging Mom.

    
“So, the police don’t think it was an accident?”

    
“Your father says they’re starting an investigation, but aren’t sure it will lead anywhere. It could have been an accident. Then again, if Robin gave him an overdose, he took it willingly, so is that murder?’

    
I thought about it. “You mean if he had taken his medicine earlier in the evening and then consciously took another pill, even with Robin’s encouragement, it’s not a crime?”

     Having
forgotten to tell the waitress no chips with my sandwich, I was now confronted with a huge pile. I just wouldn’t eat them.

    
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “Saul wasn’t mentally handicapped. He should have known whether or not he had taken a pill earlier that evening, and if he did, who is to say Robin knew it? We both saw the two of them go round and round about his medicine last week. I think her lawyers could put up a pretty good defense that it was an accident. He took a pill without her knowing it and then willingly took the one she gave him, as a roomful of witnesses can attest.”

    
“But two other men she’s been involved with have had similar ‘accidents’” I pointed out.

    
Mom swallowed a dainty bite of her pasta salad. “Nothing’s ever been proven.”

    
“Still.”

     We sat in silence.

     “And the discs,” I said. “Who could’ve taken the discs? Angela was right. Saul was careful about those.”

    
“Compulsively so, although Angela should keep some things to herself.”

    
“You don’t think the police really suspect her?”

    
“I just don’t want her drawing attention to herself. She’s always so desperate to prove how clever she is. People might take that the wrong way.”

    
“And she’s got serial killer eyes,” I added.

    
“She does not.” Mom took a sip of tea. “Though she does stare, doesn’t she. It can be disconcerting. Maybe I should talk to her. Tell her to let the police handle this.”

    
“You know she’s going to want to solve it before they do. She’s very competitive.”

    
“The poor thing. Without a mother’s guidance, a young girl is so lost.”

    
No comment from this side of the table. Uh-uh.

    
“What about Tony Trianos?” I asked.

    
“What about him?”

    
“Oscar Browley thought he might have had something to do with it. Whatever ‘it’ is.”

    
“As Nancy says, most crimes are done by criminals. If you’ve got a person with Trianos’ background near a crime scene, you take a look at him.”

    
“A chopped-off hand sounds like a mob thing, and the dead rat feels like a warning.”

    
“Maybe.”

    
“If anyone could get a chopped-off hand, it would be Trianos. And if anyone could get away with a crime, it would be Trianos. That is, if a crime were committed.”

    
My sandwich was gone, and I was trying not to eat all the chips on my plate. They were hard to resist.

    
“If a crime was committed,” Mom echoed.

    
“Do you think there was?”

    
She shrugged, and two more of my chips disappeared in quick succession, while she gathered her thoughts.

    
“I don’t know what to think,” she said finally. “Do I think Trianos left a severed hand on Saul’s doorstep? I can’t imagine why he would. Do I believe Robin stood there and cold-bloodedly passed a murder weapon from her hands to Saul’s? I can’t fathom it. Do I think someone slipped Saul something earlier so that when he took his pill, he overdosed? I don’t know who could or why.”

    
Mom’s mention of “why” reminded me to tell her about Nancy’s assertion at the party that Saul had been a snoop.

    
“Interesting.” Mom sat back to let the waitress refill her tea glass. When we were alone again, she continued.  “So Nancy thought Saul wanted to hurt her.”

    
I swallowed a chip. “But how could he?”

    
“Perhaps, Saul didn’t confine his prying to the books he was researching. Maybe he had discovered something about Nancy she would’ve preferred that he hadn’t.” She paused. “You say Trianos overheard your conversation?”

    
I nodded, licking salt from my fingers.  Enough with the chips already. I wanted the waitress to take my plate, but she was across the room, obviously in cahoots with the cellulite fairy.

    
I tried to recall the moment when Nancy and I had been talking. “Was Trianos purposely eavesdropping? I couldn’t say. He was definitely hip to what we were discussing, but then, he doesn’t seem like a guy who misses much.”

    
Mom nodded.

    
“For instance, he didn’t miss how hot you looked in that red dress,” I said casually.

    
“Don’t be ridiculous.”

    
I could tell by her blush that she, too, had noticed his appreciative assessment of her.