A Cold Christmas Page 9

  “What did you learn?”

  Thackeray held out his hands and shrugged. “I don’t think Mitchell even asked for any. Too trusting, that man, like his father. You might wonder how they stayed in business all those years. But I must say Holiday was an ideal tenant.”

  “How often did you see him?”

  “I never saw him. Maybe once or twice. And I’ll have to say he was quiet. I never heard a thing. No jumping around or loud music. What’s this about?”

  “The man’s dead.”

  “I heard that. What happened?”

  Demarco got what he could from Thackeray, which amounted to nothing. He knew the black-haired female in the chief’s role only had him doing this because everybody was sick, but it was good to be back in investigation. He thanked Thackeray and went out.

  Six or eight other businesses were on this block. Directly across were the medical offices of Drs. Cunningham and Barrington.

  He jogged across the street and entered the building. The receptionist was young and pretty and blond, in a good position to see anybody go in and out of the apartment above the rare book store.

  “Officer Demarco,” he said. “I’m trying to find out…”

  “I can’t tell you anything about a patient.” Her back stiffened with resolve.

  “The man who lives above the sewing machine repair place,” he said.

  She relaxed. Sweet kid, not real bright. She’d just revealed that Holiday wasn’t a patient.

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  She nodded hesitantly. “If you happen to look over and he’s coming out or going in, you’re bound to see him, you know? He was in here once.”

  Demarco thought he must be losing it, if he’d been wrong about something so simple. “Was he sick?”

  “Not really. He asked if I knew Mat James.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not really supposed to talk about that.”

  James was a patient.

  “Otherwise, just going in or out. He was— I don’t know. He always seemed so sad.”

  “Sad? Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. He was kind of a scary-looking guy, really, but something about him just made you think he was really sad. You know? Like he had something really tragic happen in his life.”

  Haven’t we all? Demarco thought. “Who else have you seen going in or out?”

  “No one.”

  “Friends?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I just never saw him with anybody.”

  “How often did you see him?”

  “I don’t know. Going in and out. You don’t count, you know?”

  The phone rang. She picked it up and spoke softly, “Doctors Cunningham and Barrington.”

  Demarco placed a card on the desk, told her to call if she thought of anything.

  Next to the doctors’ office was a flower shop. It was warm and steamy inside. Christmas leaped out and grabbed him. Speakers on the walls blared out carols. Cutesy-cutesy, artsy-fartsy Santas and elves and reindeer cavorted and simpered and leered from walls and shelves and displays. Ice skaters skated eternally round and round an artificial pond. Christmas trees in white and blue and pink and silver. Whatever happened to green? Baskets of glass baubles and glittery icicles, garlands of silver and gold, boxes of angels and birds and stars and bells. It was enough to convert you to instant atheism.

  “Help you?” A sour-faced female sagging into middle age, with short brown hair and a busy attitude, jabbed lollipops into a large Styrofoam wheel.

  “What do you know about Tim Holiday?”

  “Who?”

  Demarco planted himself at her side and waited until she looked up at him over the tops of her glasses. Obviously, his face didn’t please her any more than his voice had. Any little kiddies wandering in here would probably go shrieking out and have nightmares.

  “He lives across the street above the sewing machine repair shop.”

  “What makes you think I know him?”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “You ever seen him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How often?”

  “How do I know? I’m busy. So if you’ll just go bother somebody else, I’d appreciate it.”

  He resisted the sweet thought of slapping her around. Cops were discouraged from that. “He’s been killed. I’m investigating his death.”

  “The poor bastard. What was he up to?”

  “Why do you think he was up to something?”

  She gave him her full attention. “Stands to reason. You’re here, aren’t you? On the run, was he?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  She stared at him. “Here you are with your asinine questions. You think I’m so mashed out on Christmas I can’t think straight?”

  “Was he ever in here?”

  “Once. Wanted a bunch of daisies sent to…” She stopped mutilating the Styrofoam to think. “Aw, now, who? Oh, yeah. Caley James. Only reason I remember is because he asked questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Like did I know where she worked and did she work fulltime. I told him I deliver flowers, not information. I sent the daisies with a blank card.”

  “Why blank?”

  “Because he didn’t put anything on it. Not even his name. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.” She resumed jabbing lollipops into innocent Styrofoam.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said on the way out.

  In the picture-framing shop, a small tree decorated with colored lights and tiny picture frames sat in the window; silver strands of festivity were draped over the pictures on the walls. He asked about Holiday and learned the young woman who owned the place had never seen him and didn’t know anyone lived above the sewing machine place and was that legal? She had space above her shop and could she rent that?

  Demarco told her to check with the city.

  The waitresses at Spinner’s restaurant had seen Holiday a few times. He ordered take-out food, picked it up, paid, and left. He’d been in the bakery and bought doughnuts. He’d never been in the nursery, nor had he partaken of the services of the hair salon.

  Irritation itched at Demarco to go back with no information, but that’s what it looked like he’d have to do.

  He sat in the unmarked, thought a minute, and then fired up the motor. At the department, he sought out Digger, the computer wizard. Digger’s office was a small windowless room with rows of overloaded shelves sagging under bulging folders, books, and computer printouts. Computers, printers, copiers, faxes, and machines Demarco couldn’t identify were squeezed together, allowing just enough room for Digger’s desk. He could barely be seen over the stacks of paper surrounding him.

  “See what you can find out about Tim Holiday.”

  “I’m busy,” Digger said.

  He always said that. The only way to get what you wanted was to wait him out. Demarco was good at waiting. He stood by the desk and looked down at Digger until the guy looked up.

  “I’ll get to it as soon as I finish this stuff I’m working on.”

  “It’s the homicide victim.”

  Digger slapped the paper he held onto the top of a teetering pile of folders. Demarco waited to see if the whole thing would topple. He wondered if Digger could sort it out if it did.

  “You want me to do this now? Look at all this stuff I have to get to.”

  “Now,” Demarco said.

  Digger stared at him, then sighed. His fingers played over the keys. A few minutes later, the printer came to life and spewed out papers. Digger handed them to Demarco. “Now, can I get back to work?”

  Demarco gave him a distracted thanks as he read.

  Well well well, he thought. Chief Wren should find this interesting.

  12

  Zach was used to the cold. Living in Kansas made you used to any kind of weather, and he’d lived here most of his life. He wondered sometimes what it would be like to live in Seattl
e, where his mom came from. It rained most of the time. Mom missed the rain, and she missed Seattle. When Zach pointed out it rained in Kansas, she said it wasn’t the same. In Kansas, the rain came with thunder and lightning and hail and tornadoes, scary stuff. In Seattle, it was sometimes soft, sometimes hard, but seldom thunder and lightning, seldom scary. Zach liked thunderstorms.

  He sure could use his cap; his ears were getting numb. Hours had passed since he’d told Sam and Jo to go home. They’d be inside now, warm, having supper probably like nothing had happened. It was completely dark, maybe getting on toward six.

  How dangerous was the mess his dad was in? Dangerous enough that he’d bought a gun. Baines had a gun. The dead guy’d been shot. Whose gun? Dad’s? Baines’s? At least Mom’d been keeping doors and windows locked since the dead guy. Mostly. The Littles weren’t very good at remembering. And the house was so old, sometimes windows looked locked and weren’t. Maybe they could just pack up and move to Seattle.

  Why did he feel so guilty? All he did was sneak into somebody’s house. Big deal. The door wasn’t even locked.

  He trudged up the long driveway. Hey, count the good stuff. It hadn’t snowed. The driveway didn’t need shoveling. That was good. And weeds weren’t growing through the cracks. That was good.

  Yeah, right. Those were the only two good things in his life.

  He went around back and climbed up to the tree house. Ollie, Mrs. Franken’s big orange cat, was sleeping in a corner. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know it’s warmer in your house? Dumb cat.” Zach stroked him and listened to the loud purr. His bedroom window looked locked, but it wasn’t. The lock was so old it wouldn’t catch. He slid the window up and climbed inside. Unzipping his jacket, he shrugged it off and hung it way back in the closet. After sitting on the bed for an hour or two or ten or ten years, he went downstairs.

  Mom, at the stove, looked up from the pot she was stirring. “Zach, what’s wrong?”

  Probably saw guilt in big red letters on his forehead. “Nothing.” He went back upstairs.

  “Zach?” His mom came in. “What is it?”

  “There’s a lot of things to do in this world.” He threw out the first dumb thing that came to his mind. “With so many people doing so many different things. I don’t know where I want to go. I can’t even think of what I want to spend my life doing.”

  She put an arm around him. What would she do if he told her about Dad and the money?

  “You know,” she said. “You have an advantage most people don’t have.”

  That confused him. She was lots like a butterfly. Thoughts flitted through her mind and lit this place and that.

  “You have, you know.” She sounded like she was trying to convince him. “You’re smarter and you’ve grown up quicker than most. Partly it’s your father’s fault, but a lot of it’s mine, I’m sorry to say. I should have been better, a more mature mom. You think things some adults never get around to. What I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to know this minute. Where you are right now is—the best thing to do is just be there. Enjoy it as much as you can. I know things aren’t easy, but try to let life just unfold for you. What’ll happen is things pretty much work out if you let them. You know? If you don’t get in their way and you try to think good thoughts when you can and do good things when you can.”

  Was there some good thing he should do here about Dad and the money that he couldn’t think of?

  She put both hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Zach?”

  He tried a grin. “You have to think I’m smart; you’re my mom.”

  “What kind of nonsense is that? Everybody thinks you’re smart.”

  A distraction was needed here before she went into cosmic worry.

  “I went off and left Sam and Jo all alone on Falcon Road. How smart is that?”

  “Where’s Falcon Road?”

  “Over by the river.”

  “What were you doing way over there?”

  “Looking at the river.” And seeing Dad give some guy named Baines a lot of money. Did Baines kill the furnace man? Would he come back here and hurt Mom or the Littles?

  “Since Sam has lived here all his life,” she said, “and Jo is a pretty bright girl, I expect they have enough sense not to fall in the river. I’ve made spaghetti. Let’s go eat.”

  13

  Roy Dandermadden watched his wife. She was curled up on the couch, her face drawn and weary. He hated to think he’d contributed to her tiredness. She was doing the nine to five while he was free for Christmas break. Well, hell, it wasn’t as though he had nothing to do, and he was getting meals together for supper. Not that he was much of a cook, but that meant she didn’t need to do it.

  He was managing to have time with Jo. Even at eleven, she was already slipping away from him. Mandy, seventeen, was spending all her time with friends and giving him excuses when he wanted her to do something with him.

  “I don’t see why you don’t call her,” Lillian said.

  Because he didn’t think his mother would go for it, that’s why. Lillian thought it made sense, and he, honest to God, didn’t know what they were going to do otherwise, but … He sighed.

  “Tired?” Lillian’s voice had an edge to it.

  Lately, she’d been sharp instead of her usual sweet self. Did she know about Cindy? No, she couldn’t. Even if she were to wonder … And why would she wonder? They’d been too careful, he and Cindy. Since her husband beat her so awful, Roy hadn’t even smiled at her in the supermarket. He wanted to go and rip the skin off Harley, the bastard, but Cindy said it would only make things worse. He tried to get her to go to the police, but she wouldn’t. So there they were. Cindy at home with that son of a bitch Harley and him sitting here with Lillian, who sent sharp-edged sarcasm in his direction. Ain’t life grand?

  Roy rubbed his face. Dishes needed doing. He might as well get to it. Mandy was supposed to, but as soon as supper was over, she’d disappeared into her room. She hadn’t used to be that way, only since Lillian started acting like he was a leper. Where was the damn remote? After a long search, he found it under the paper and clicked on the television.

  Lillian put down her book. “Have you even called her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lillian—”

  “What?”

  “She won’t go for it,” he said.

  “She wouldn’t give you any money to help her granddaughter go to Stanford? The child has a partial scholarship. All she needs is some help.”

  That “all she needs” was a mite misleading. It amounted to some thousands.

  “The thing is, Lillian, Mom believes in people making their own way. She thinks making it easy for kids is bad for them. It makes them not appreciate what they get.” There was a lot more to it, but he didn’t think Lillian would care to hear that, either.

  “Give her a call, Roy. You’re her only child and she has lots of money. It isn’t as though that money won’t come to you anyway when she passes on.”

  Even knowing the call was a bad idea, Roy went into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

  “Mom? How you feeling?”

  He listened through a long chain of ailments. “Well,” he said when she ran down. “The thing is, Mom…” He didn’t want to do this. He knew she wouldn’t go for it. “I needed to ask you about the fall.”

  “What fall? I didn’t fall.”

  “No, I know you didn’t. I mean next August. Mandy’s graduating in the spring and going off to college.” He hesitated.

  “I’m aware of that. You think I don’t keep track of my granddaughters? Will you just go ahead and say what it is you want to say and get it over with? The way you go dithering on is as bad as your Aunt Rosie was before she died.”

  “The thing is we could use some money to send her to college.”

  There was a cold silence. Roy knew he shouldn’t have said anything.

  “Roy Dandermadden, you knew wh
en that girl was just a little thing that she was bright as a button and would be ready for college at this very time. You should have been prepared.”

  “We are. It’s just that everything is very expensive and we did have to live along the way—”

  “Your daddy Billy Forrester and I worked hard all our lives to provide for you. Now it’s your turn to do for yours. I don’t believe in handing things on a platter to young people. It’s not good for them. They need to work for it, just like your daddy and I did.”

  Mostly, the money came from Billy Forrester Dandermadden’s daddy, but Roy didn’t point that out. “I realize that, but—”

  “I never did understand why she wanted to go all that far away anyway. California? We have a very fine college right here in Hampstead.”

  “Stanford is an excellent school, Mom. She’s been given an opportunity very few people get.”

  There was another frosty silence.

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll see you Tuesday, then.”

  “Don’t be late, darling.”

  “I won’t.”

  He didn’t have to say anything to Lillian when he went back to the living room. One look at him and she knew. “Your mother said no,” Lillian stated.

  “I knew she would.” He sprawled on the couch and clicked the remote.

  “She is the most selfish old woman. After all you do for her. Over there all the time, fixing this and fixing that, and her granddaughter needs—”

  “Let it go, Lillian.”

  “I’m not sure I will. Ida Ruth Dandermadden is a selfish, tightfisted, mean old woman and she better watch her step or someday she just might get a great big shove.”

  14

  Shortly before eight, Susan went back to the shop to see if there was anything going.

  “Hazel, what are you still doing here? Get yourself home! You’ve got to take care of yourself. Without you I’d have to pack up and leave. Find someone to take over and get some rest.”