Nutty As a Fruitcake (14 page)

Judith, who had been mixing punch while she listened to the recital, smiled at her guest's obvious relief. “I agree. It never struck me as something George would do, either. Especially not the part about the hatchet.”

Mrs. Swanson stiffened and put a hand to her throat. “That hatchet! I am so distressed!”

Judith nodded as she opened a bottle of sparkling cider. “That's what I mean—it's such a violent sort of murder.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Swanson said quickly. “Horrible as it is, that isn't what I refer to.” She pursed her lips and stared unhappily into the martini glass. “You see, I am very much afraid. Do you think the police know that the hatchet belongs to me?”

T
HERE WAS NO
such thing as the perfect Douglas fir, at least not in the parking lot of Our Lady, Star of the Sea Catholic Church. Judith frowned and Renie grumbled.

“They had some great trees last Sunday,” Renie said. “I suppose they got picked over. Why do people buy them so early?”

“Too many so-called designer trees,” Judith muttered, more to herself than to Renie, who wasn't listening anyway. “Themes are fine for stores, but real people should decorate with memories.”

“All this shearing—that's okay for vapid types who have about ten ornaments,” Renie griped. “But we've got hundreds. Bill and I want a tree with branches that come out to here.” She gestured into infinity.

“Maybe they'll get another delivery today,” Judith said, looking around for somebody who might be in charge. Since the lot was manned by fellow parishioners and the customers were also SOTS, Judith couldn't figure out who was who. “I don't see a single tree that's over seven feet tall. We've got a nine-foot ceiling.”

“Three tops,” Renie declared in disgust. “Almost every Douglas fir that's bigger than a house plant has three tops. Why can't tree farms grow trees with a single top? It's stupid.”

At last, Judith spotted Mr. Scalia taking money from Mrs. Flaherty. Both were longtime parishioners. Judith approached Mr. Scalia and asked if they were expecting a new shipment later in the day.

They weren't. The next delivery wasn't due until Monday morning. Judith thanked Mr. Scalia and wandered back to Renie, who was curling her lip at what she obviously considered an inferior specimen.

“We're out of luck,” Judith said. “Shall we try Falstaff's or Nottingham's?”

Renie shook her head. “Falstaff's doesn't have much selection, and Nottingham's is too expensive. There's a Boy Scout lot a block down from Moonbeam's. As long as Bill has abandoned me, let's take a look.”

Bill had not actually abandoned his wife but had left her at church to help Judith select a tree. The Joneses had decided to postpone making their selection until mid-week. Their three children were scattered on this rainy Sunday morning, and the family wanted to wait until they were all together. Otherwise, the five of them couldn't engage in their annual Christmas hostilities.

As the cousins drove along the top of Heraldsgate Hill, the windshield wipers were working at a rapid pace. During the night, the temperature had risen and the rain clouds had moved in. There was some concern about flooding in rural parts of the county.

“Remember how we used to cut our own trees when we were kids?” Renie said, looking wistful. “Our dads and Grandpa Grover would drive us way out into the woods to someplace that's probably a strip mall now, and we'd have to hide because usually somebody owned the property and would shoot us if we got caught. It was kind of exciting. Those trees were always perfect.”

“Those trees were horrible,” Judith declared. “My father almost always had to put in a new top. I remember one year your father cut up two trees and taped them together. The top half turned yellow in about forty-eight hours.”

Renie was looking thoughtful. “Maybe my memory' shot.
I'm muddled, like George. What have you heard since Mrs. Swanson confessed to you about her donated hatchet?”

“Nothing,” Judith admitted, slowly prowling the first row of trees and trying not to step in any major mud puddles. “I finally remembered George mentioning he'd borrowed the hatchet to chop up some firewood. But that doesn't mean he chopped up Enid, too. As far as I know, there hasn't been anybody at the house since the police threw Leigh out on Friday. The patrol car comes by about once every hour or so. Oh—Ted put the sign up in the Goodriches' yard. None of us felt it could hurt anything.”

Off to one side, a half-dozen larger trees were propped up against a cyclone fence. Judith's boots squelched under her as she moved closer for a better look.

“This is more like it,” she called to Renie who had lingered to check out a pile of cedar wreaths. “At least eight feet, unsheared, and the top isn't bad, either. Help me shake it out.”

Together, the cousins managed to haul the big Douglas fir away from the fence. “Is it even?” Judith asked.

“How do I know?” Renie replied in a muffled voice. “I'm not looking at it; I'm in it.”

Sure enough, the tree's long branches enveloped Renie. Judith tried to step back as raindrops rolled off her jacket's hood. “I think it's a keeper. It smells wonderful, too.” In her enthusiasm, Judith let go of the trunk. The big fir plunged backward, taking Renie with it.

“Yikes!” Renie shouted, falling into the fence. “I'm killed!”

“Oh, dear!” Trying not to laugh, Judith rushed to her cousin's side. “Coz—are you okay?”

“I'm not if I'm dead,” Renie snapped, shaking herself and sending off a spray of water like a wet pup. “How much?”

“These aren't marked,” Judith replied, looking around for assistance. It appeared in the form of O.P. Dooley, wearing a yellow slicker over his Boy Scout uniform. Judith smiled brightly at the boy. “I've found the perfect tree,” she said. “How much, O.P.?”

O.P. bore a striking resemblance to his older brother, par
ticularly the fair hair and mobile mouth. But the younger Dooley was shorter by almost a head, with a handful of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Despite the uniform with its official sash and badges, O.P. looked very young and faintly miserable with the rain pelting his slight form.

“That one's ninety dollars,” O.P. said solemnly.

“Ninety dollars?”
Judith reeled in disbelief. “Egad! The big ones are only eighty at Nottingham's, and they're in the business! O.P., this is the Boy Scouts!”

O.P.'s chin betrayed only the slightest quiver. “It's our big fund-raiser, Mrs. McMonigle. We make enough to keep our troop going.”

“Going where? The French Riviera? And it's Mrs.
Flynn
. It's been Mrs.
Flynn
for almost three years.” Judith caught herself and gave O.P. a sheepish look. “Hey, I'm sorry. It's just that it's raining cats and dogs, my husband has to work this weekend, it's hard to find the right tree for our big living room, and I…well, sometimes I get frazzled before Christmas.”

“We help poor kids, too,” O.P. said with dignity. “You know, troops that can't raise much money. Scouting keeps kids out of gangs.” He brushed a raindrop from his cheek, or perhaps it was a tear.

Judith sighed. “I'll take it. We'll have to put it on top of the car. It's too big for the trunk.”

Renie was stroking the branches of the big fir's neighbor. It was a bit shorter but almost as full. “To heck with it,” she said. “I'll buy this one. My husband and I'll pick it up this afternoon. How much?”

“Eighty-five,” O.P. replied promptly. “I'll tag it for you.”

An older boy Judith didn't recognize came to cart off the giant fir. “Don't forget to make a two-inch cut,” Judith called, then turned back to O.P. “I guess it's worth it. It may be the nicest tree we've ever had.” It was, Judith silently added, certainly the most costly.

Now very serious, O.P. nodded. “It's a super tree. Say, Mrs. Mc…ah, Mrs. Flynn, do you think my brother and me could talk to Mr. Flynn sometime?”

“Sure,” Judith replied, as Renie approached, carrying a pine-and-cedar wreath. “What about?”

O.P. rubbed at his left eye, then brushed an accumulation of rain from his worried face. “It's Aloysius. He says I got to talk to Mr. Flynn about the guy I saw the other day.”

“What guy?” Judith asked, feeling her boots sink into the muddy ground.

“I don't know him,” O.P. said, blushing a bit. “But I saw him through my telescope before I went to school Wednesday morning. It was still pretty dark out. He went to Mr. and Mrs. Goodrich's house. You know, the back way.”

Judith, Renie, and O.P. had begun strolling in the direction of the trailer that served as office and shelter for the scouts. Three people already were lined up, waiting to pay for their selected greenery. Judith didn't get in line. She was too intrigued by O.P.'s information.

“What time Wednesday morning?” she asked, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

O.P. scratched at his cheek. “Around seven-thirty, I guess. I leave for school at eight, but breakfast wasn't ready, so I stayed in my room and was playing around with the telescope. I'm too old for TV 'toons.”

Two children, both boys who were not much younger than O.P., tugged at his slicker. Apparently, they wanted him to help their parents choose a tree. Reluctantly, O.P. excused himself.

“O.P.!” Judith called after him. “Come over to our house when you get through here, okay? Bring Dooley.”

A wave of one slicker-covered arm signaled agreement, or so Judith hoped. Mentally, she kicked herself for not talking to O.P. sooner. But during the years that his older brother had shown no interest in detection, Judith had forgotten about the telescope.

“Who could have come by so early?” Judith muttered as she and Renie finally fell into what was now a six-person queue. “If we take Art at his word, it wasn't him. O.P. might recognize Art anyway. The grandsons, too. Who's left?”

Renie was counting cash out of her wallet. “O.P.'s sure it was a man?”

“He seemed to be.” Briefly, Judith's attention was diverted by the sight of the lad who'd hauled her tree away. He was using a chain saw to make the required two-inch cut on the thick trunk. “The red truck,” Judith said, under her breath. “Rochelle and Mrs. Swanson saw it. I asked Rochelle if it was a Cascade Beer truck. She didn't know. But aren't they red?”

“Sure,” Renie said, digging for exact change. “Red with white writing. Bad choice, from a design standpoint. Black on red would be better for beer. Or reverse it, red on black. Very classy.”

“Shut up,” Judith ordered. “I'm thinking Gary Meyers.”

“I know you are,” Renie said blithely. “‘Spurned Suitor Whacks Girlfriend's Mom.' Isn't that the headline you're envisioning?”

The short, chubby man in front of the cousins turned around and gave them a sharp look. Judith recognized him as one of the butchers from Falstaff's. Apparently, he didn't think his store had a very wide selection of trees, either. He also seemed to think Judith and Renie might be a little strange.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded in the gruff voice that usually conveyed an underlying jocular note. Then his face brightened as he apparently recognized two of his regular customers. “That murder on the south side of the Hill?”

Embarrassed, Judith nodded. She remembered that the butcher's name was Harold. “It happened two doors down.”

Harold also nodded. “That's right, you own the B&B in the cul-de-sac. Terrible thing. Mr. Goodrich shops at our store. Used to, anyway. I haven't seen him lately. Maybe I made him mad.”

“Oh?” Judith forgot her embarrassment. “How so?”

Harold dropped his chin onto his chest. He had almost no neck, and the earflaps on his hunting cap stuck straight out. “Well…I gave him a bad time about some shortages in our deliveries from Pacific Meat. He said he didn't actually work
there anymore. Maybe I was too hard on the old guy. Shortages seem to be a way of life these days. It's this younger generation, not paying attention to their work. No pride. Gimme, gimme, gimme.” Harold moved up in line to pay for his tree.

By unspoken mutual consent, the cousins stopped talking about the homicide. Judith saw her fir now leaning against the trailer. Renie was studying the wire frame on her wreath. Harold paid his money, nodded at the cousins, and went off to claim his purchase.

It took almost ten minutes to secure the big fir on top of the Japanese compact. Judith drove home very carefully. Together, the cousins wrestled the tree to the ground. By the time they had dragged it to the side of the house, both Judith and Renie were not only wet but dirty, tired, and out of breath. They were about to seek sanctuary in the kitchen when Gertrude called to them from the toolshed.

“Hey, dingbats—where's
my
tree?”

Judith's shoulders slumped. “You said you didn't have room for a tree. I thought you were going to use that little ceramic one that Aunt Ellen sent. It's really cute.”

“It's really ceramic,” Gertrude snapped. “I had a tree in this packing crate I call a home last year. We put it on the card table.”

Wearily, Judith approached the toolshed. She didn't feel like shouting through the rain. “You said you didn't want it on the card table again. You had no place for your solitaire.”

“So we'll set it in the middle of the floor.” Gertrude banged her walker for emphasis. “I don't like phony stuff. You can put Aunt Ellen's ceramic tree in your bathroom. If you don't like that idea, you can put it up your…”

“Mother, I'll get you a tree tomorrow. Renie and I are exhausted. That tree weighs a ton.” Feebly, Judith gestured at the Douglas fir.

“Hunh.” Gertrude narrowed her eyes at the fir. “Now why would you get a redwood? Why do you need anything that big? I'll bet that cost you fifteen bucks! I don't want you paying more than two-fifty for mine!” With a swish of her
housecoat, Gertrude clumped back inside the toolshed.

Renie had remained standing on the porch steps. “My mother doesn't want a tree. But of course she really does. She says it's too much trouble for me. But if I don't get one, she'll be ‘low in her mind,' as she puts it, until New Year's. She insists that if I do get one for her, I can't decorate it because she doesn't want to be a burden. But if I don't, she'll put on her martyr's crown and all I'll hear for the next three weeks are deep, heart-wrenching sighs. Is it too early to start drinking?”