Murder With All the Trimmings (3 page)

“I’m sorry,” Josie said.

“Hey, I’m a big boy. I take responsibility for my actions. Heather was a cute baby. She’s going through her surly teenage phase now, but she’ll snap out of it.”

Josie wasn’t so sure. She thought Heather’s bad mood was permanent.

“What about you?” Mike asked. “How do you feel about the season?”

“I’ve been looking at Christmas decorations for months. I’m sick of grinning Santas and simpering angels.”

“I don’t blame you. The malls put them up after Halloween,” Mike said.

“Are you kidding? Most malls start the Christmas push right after Labor Day. The beach chairs are barely packed away before the Christmas trees come out. How can Doreen stand Christmas twelve months a year? I’m turning into Scrooge already. All that phony holiday cheer.

“Is Doreen a sweet, Mrs. Claus type, round and jolly with a gray bun and twinkling eyes?”

Mike laughed. “Doreen doesn’t twinkle. She also doesn’t give a reindeer fart about Christmas. Her favorite color is green, but only if it’s money. You’ll meet her tonight, so you can see what she’s like. Brace yourself. We’re heading into a holiday zone.”

The blinking colored lights made the upcoming block look like the Las Vegas strip. Christmas All Year Round had a giant Santa waving from the roof and yelling, “Ho, ho, ho.”

“Bet the neighbors love that,” Josie said.

“They don’t care. They get a twenty percent discount if they live in the area.”

“It must work. Look at that line. It’s halfway down the block,” Josie said.

“Too bad it’s not Doreen’s shop,” Mike said.

Across the street at Naughty or Nice, a winking Mrs. Claus was showing a lot of leg for the chilly North Pole. This Mrs. Claus was a temptress. Josie wondered if she belonged on the store’s sign.

“Doreen figures it’s smart to open her franchise across from an established store, because she’ll get the people who are tired of waiting in line,” Mike said. “So far her theory hasn’t worked.”

“Waiting in line is a city ritual,” Josie said. “That’s where you see your friends. Christmas All Year Round gives free hot chocolate while you wait. Besides, what is Doreen going to do after the holidays when all the decorations are on sale at the big stores?”

“Doreen thinks her place can thrive all twelve months.”

“I hope so. But I’ve never heard of the Naughty or Nice stores.”

“She gets mad when I say that,” Mike said. “Doreen says I want her to fail. She couldn’t be more wrong. We both want Heather to go to college. If her mother is making money, it will be easier to send my daughter to a good school. Doreen has invested more than a hundred thousand dollars in the franchise. She got eighty thou after her aunt Milly died, and the rest came from me.”

One hundred thousand dollars, well invested for another four years, could send Heather to a good local college, Josie thought, but she kept silent.

“There’s the problem,” Mike said, pointing to a fake Tudor cottage next door to Naughty or Nice. “That shop, Elsie’s Elf House, is owned by Doreen’s rival. There are now
three
Christmas stores in the space of two blocks. One of them is sure to fail.”

“Survival of the fittest,” Josie said. “Now there’s the real spirit of Christmas. Why did Doreen choose this location?”

“She didn’t. The franchise chose it. She opened her store and Elsie’s Elf House moved in two weeks later. Doreen was furious. Those women have some history.”

Doreen’s building looked like it had been built by Elsie’s elves. It had a steeply pitched roof, plastic mullioned windows, and wooden icicles on the eaves. An inflatable Santa butt and legs were hanging out of the chimney, as if Saint Nick were smothering headfirst in the chimney.

Josie shivered. “Nice,” she said. “That should make the little children feel good.”

“I think it’s mean,” Mike said. “But the Santa butt is one of her best sellers. Wait till you see the inside.”

A tinkling bell sounded when Mike opened the door, and odors of warm cinnamon and spice floated out. Josie stared at the tacky Christmas displays. There was a kitschy print of the Edward Hopper painting set in the late-night diner,
The Nighthawks.
On one stool, a world-weary Mary held a howling Baby Jesus. A tired Joseph sipped coffee. A donkey was tied to a parking meter. Three kings, dressed in gold and gangsta bling, approached bearing gifts—a set of gold mag wheels, a bottle of Crown Royal, and a jewelry box overflowing with diamonds and pearls.

“Uh,” Josie said. She was distracted by an inflatable Homer Simpson in a Santa hat leering at a simpering Christmas angel who looked like Barbie with wings.

A herd of moth-eaten deer heads hung on the walls, red noses flashing.

“Looks like someone shot Rudolph,” Mike said.

Josie said nothing, but it took all of her restraint.

Hanging from the ceiling by gold threads were hundreds of angels, elves, Santas, snowflakes, and star ornaments, each one seeming gaudier than the last.

A felt banner embroidered DEFINITELY NAUGHTY covered a doorway. Josie lifted it. The banner hid a floor-to-ceiling display of “pornaments”—pornographic Christmas ornaments. They included snowmen and reindeer in awkward positions, and an elf with a body part that definitely wasn’t elfin called SOUTH POLE. Mrs. Claus had her face in Santa’s lap for a SNOW JOB.

Josie dropped the banner in disgust, backing into a shelf of crocheted angels with toilet-paper rolls hidden under their full skirts, like heavenly shoplifters. The angels teetered but didn’t fall.

“What are those?” Mike asked.

“Toilet-paper covers,” Josie said.

“What’s wrong with naked toilet paper?” Mike said.

“Beats me,” Josie said. “I’m not ashamed to display mine.”

“It’s classier if you hide it,” said a woman stirring a cauldron of apple cider behind the counter.

Doreen, Josie guessed. Anyone who sold pornographic Christmas ornaments had no business talking about class.

“This is Doreen, Heather’s mother,” Mike said, stepping awkwardly between the two women.

Doreen glared at Josie. Her long thin nose, wild gray-black hair, and shapeless dark outfit reminded Josie of a witch. All she needed was a wart to complete the ensemble. Doreen’s expression was Scrooge-sour, and the lines around her mouth pointed down in permanent disapproval.

How did cheerful Mike hook up with this unhappy woman?

“This is Josie,” Mike said, as if presenting a rare jewel. “Doreen, we came in for your cider and warm gingerbread.”

Doreen looked Josie up and down, an aristocrat sizing up a housemaid. “So you’re Mike’s latest?” she said. “Good luck, honey. When you hang around a plumber, you get a lot of shit.”

Doreen slung two stingy pieces of gingerbread and two cups of cider on the countertop. Josie sipped her cider. It was sticky. The gingerbread was stale and left grease spots on the cheap paper plate.

“Amazing,” Mike said through a mouth full of gingerbread. Josie thought he was astonishingly tactful.

“Better than that stupid chocolate snowman cake
she
sells next door,” Doreen said. “Who ever heard of a chocolate snowman? They’re supposed to be white.”

“How’s Heather?” Mike asked.

“Your daughter is icing cakes in the back,” Doreen said. “She’s not happy.”

Like mother, like daughter, Josie thought.

If only Mike didn’t have a sullen teenage daughter, Josie would marry him tomorrow. Heather was big-boned and brawny like her father, but she had her mother’s bitterness. She was mean to Amelia. Josie had no desire to be Heather’s wicked stepmother. Single motherhood was hard enough.

Heather came out of the back room wearing a green felt elf hat and carrying a spatula covered with frosting. Heather’s baggy jeans and stretched-out sweatshirt made her look heavier. Her wild brown hair needed a good cut and her pale skin was sprinkled with zits.

Heather burst into tears when she saw Mike. “Daddy, she’s making me work here. I’m stuck slaving in this store and I have to wear this stupid hat.”

The kid was right to cry, Josie thought. It was a stupid hat and a terrible place to work. No daughter of hers would work in a shop that sold pornaments.

Mike turned bright red. Steam seemed to come from his ears. “Why are you using my daughter as your cheap help?” he asked Doreen. “You get good child support. Are you putting that money into this store instead of using it for Heather? Look at her clothes. She’s dressed like a bum.”

“She’s fourteen,” Doreen said. “They all dress like that. Heather has a work permit. It’s time she learned there’s more to life than IM-ing her friends and listening to her iPod.”

“She should be having fun,” Mike said. “She has the rest of her life to work.”

Amen, Josie thought, but again she said nothing. It wasn’t her child or her fight.

Chapter 3

Heather was pouting. It was not a pretty sight. She’d set her elbow on the frosting knife, and it left a grease spot on her sweatshirt sleeve. Josie could see—and smell—that Doreen was not spending money on new clothes for the girl. That sweatshirt was faded and faintly musty. Josie wondered if Doreen had bought it at a garage sale and neglected to wash it.

Heather’s lower lip stuck out like a shiny tumor. Her blue eyes were small, hard stones. How could any child who looked like hunky Mike be so homely? It was a cruel joke by Mother Nature that Mike’s daughter had his manly chin, strong frame, and broad shoulders, topped by her mother’s unruly hair.

“Come on, honey. Working at a Christmas store is not that bad,” Mike said. “You’re one of Santa’s helpers.”

“We sell pornaments, Dad. You know. Porn. Little elves with big dicks. Ho fucking ho.”

Mike winced. He didn’t like his daughter talking dirty. “Heather, honey,” he said mildly.

Heather’s voice rose to an angry screech. “What if my friends see that South Pole elf? They’ll think I’m a freaking perv.”

She’s right, Josie thought. The tumescent elf would make the girl’s life miserable at school. The boys would torment her and offer to show her a bigger pole. The girls would giggle and make cruel remarks. Josie felt sorry for Heather, even if she was obnoxious.

“The shop isn’t really busy in the evenings,” Mike said.

“Or the mornings. Or the afternoons.” Heather’s sarcasm could make the plastic angels blush.

“How about if I pick you up at five tomorrow night?” Mike said. “You could come by Josie’s and see Amelia.” He gave his most fatherly smile.

Heather rejected it. “That sucks out loud.” She stuck out her lip like an Ubangi princess in an old
National Geographic
.

Josie suppressed a sigh. Heather and Amelia didn’t get along. All they had in common was working moms and absent fathers. Mike desperately wanted the girls to be friends. He was like his big, clumsy Lab lumbering into a delicate situation and thumping around.

Too bad any friendship was hopeless. Heather and Amelia had hated each other from the moment they were introduced.

Amelia had spent one night at Heather’s home. She’d complained so much that Josie had had to bribe her daughter with a new sweater to get her to go. Amelia had called her mother at six the next morning to come pick her up. Amelia never got up that early on a weekend. She even refused Doreen’s homemade waffles for breakfast. She wanted to leave—immediately.

All the way home in the car, Amelia complained. “Heather is mean, Mom. She called me a snob. Just because I don’t go to public school like she does. She made fun of the way I talked. She said I was a baby because I don’t have a cell phone.”

About half of Amelia’s class had their own phones. Amelia had been campaigning for one.

“And the dog next door barked all night. I couldn’t sleep.”

Josie refused to expose her daughter to more of Heather’s snide remarks, even at Mike’s suggestion. “Uh, I’ll see if Amelia has plans,” she said.

“She doesn’t have plans,” Heather said. “Who’d want to hang with a dork like her?”

Josie longed to slap that sneer off the kid’s face, but she didn’t believe in hitting children.

“That’s enough,” Mike said.

“She’s lame, Daddy,” Heather whined. “She’s a baby. I’m five years older. I should be paid to babysit.”

“I’ll drive by the shop tomorrow night, if you want to go to Josie’s house,” Mike said.

Doreen poked her witchy face between her husband and daughter. “Right. Don’t consult me. What do I know? I’m only her mother. Don’t teach your daughter any responsibility, Mike. Let her grow up to be shiftless shanty Irish like your family.”

Mike was shiftless? Josie resented the slur on Mike’s ancestry. His family worked hard. His mother was a cleaning woman. His brothers were in the family plumbing business with Mike. Mike was on twenty-four-hour call at least twice a week for plumbing emergencies.

Not your child, not your fight, she reminded herself. But Josie hated her silence. In her mind it was cowardly. Josie believed if you didn’t speak out against prejudice, then you agreed with it.