Neslie's Christmas Crunch Read online

  “Jim isn’t worth your tears, Neslie. He was a…” Here, Charlene let loose with a string of bloody oaths that ended with the word “bastard.”

  I reached for another tissue, knocking my raglan-sleeved coat to the floor. Retrieving the coat and my new casket dress, Charlene hung them in the closet. “Get some sleep,” she said, weaving her fingers through her ash-blonde hair.

  “How can I sleep? I might dream. I might die.”

  “I’ll phone Dr. Tampoline, sweetie. You need a sedative.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” I said, thinking I’d ask Doc about his pink rosebuds. Who’d sent them? Who were they for? After dabbing at my swollen eyes and blowing my nose, I reached for the bedside phone. The doctor’s service answered on the third ring.

  “He’s out of town,” said a professional voice, marred only by the crackle of teeth grinding gum.

  “Dr. Tampoline didn’t say anything about leaving when I saw him this morning.”

  “You couldn’t have seen him this morning, ma’am. He’s been at a convention in Dallas for the last two days.”

  “What did you say?” I felt all the color drain from my face.

  “I said Dr. Tampoline’s in Dallas.”

  “Why are you lying? I saw him this morning, in his office.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, humoring me. Then, helpfully, “His associate, Dr. Maxwell Gordon, is available for emergencies.”

  “I don’t want Dr. Maxwell Gor—”

  Charlene grabbed the phone.

  Approximately ninety minutes later, Dr. Maxwell Gordon dropped an empty vial into my wastepaper basket.

  “You’ll sleep through the night, Neah Leslie,” he said.

  “Don’t wanna sleep,” I muttered, already feeling the effects of the sedative. “I could die.”

  Dr. Gordon possessed an Olympic athlete’s physique. “Why would you think that?” he asked, sitting on the edge of my bed.

  Charlene was downstairs, boiling a dead chicken. I had an irrepressible urge to stroke the doctor’s jean-clad thighs. Instead, I tried to explain. “Dr. Tampoline told me I’m dying.”

  “Of what, Neah Leslie? I punched up your records on the computer before I drove here.”

  “Please call me Neslie.” My eyelids felt heavy. “I’m not dyin’?”

  “Hardly. You saw Dr. Tampoline two weeks ago. He ran some tests and—”

  “Found a fatal disease.”

  “Not even close. He found that your headaches were caused by an allergy. Now he’s running more tests, trying to discover the cause of—”

  “No!” It was hard to think straight. “Were you at Dr. Tampoline’s office today?”

  “It’s my office, too. I’m his associate. Yes, I was there.”

  “Didn’t see you or nurse or receptionist. . .no one but Dr. Tampoline. . .noon.” My words tasted fuzzy.

  Dr. Gordon caressed my wrist. Nope, wrong, he took my pulse.

  “Our receptionist, Cherry Harwood, doubles as our nurse,” he said, his voice sounding as though it came from inside a tunnel. “I went to lunch around eleven-thirty, locked up the office, and routed calls to my service. Cherry left at the same time. Dr. Tampoline is in Dallas, Neslie.”

  “Uh-huh.” I squeezed my eyes shut, but my mind raced. Cherry Harwood. Cherry Ames. The name Cherry Ames sounded vaguely familiar. Cherry and Cherry. There couldn’t be two Cherries. She had to be Jim’s missing yaw.

  * * *

  I slept until eleven.

  Charlene had dumped the morning newspapers inside my bedroom. They all carried stories about Jim’s untimely demise. Two hinted that I might be the killer.

  I decided Cherry wouldn’t return to her apartment. Would she be at the office, believing her fictitious last name provided anonymity?

  Dr. Tampoline’s service told me he’d return from Dallas this afternoon. A good friend broke the rules and informed me that the good doctor had indeed purchased an airline ticket. Furthermore, he had made his flight at the designated time and was due back today at three-forty-seven. I was beginning to feel nuts again.

  Still clutching the bedroom extension, I called Jim’s brokerage firm. His partner wasn’t in. Had Howard killed my sleazy husband and flown the proverbial coop?

  The kitchen smelled of potatoes. Narrowly avoiding Pudding, Charlene fed me hot herbal tea and cold vichyssoise. Apparently, she had decided to cook dead spuds rather than a dead chicken. “Get your butt back into bed,” she said.

  “I can’t. I’ve got to find out who killed Jim.”

  “Why? So you can pin a medal on the murderer?”

  “So they can’t pin the dirty deed on me. The wife is always the number one suspect, or at least ‘a person of interest,’ and I’ve already spent a portion of Jim’s life insurance payoff at Bloomies and Tiffany’s, which means I could have known, or sort of known, that he was going to die.” Noting my sister’s puzzled gaze, I heaved a deep sigh. “Long story. Am I going crazy, Charlene?”

  “You were crazy to marry Jim.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Jim’s been trying to Gaslight me.”

  She swallowed a spoonful of potato soup. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think I’m imagining things?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Yes, you do.” I heard my voice teeter on the edge of hysteria. “Jim’s been having an affair with a potpourri addict named Cherry, Dr. Tampoline’s nurse.” I ran to my purse, retrieved a small tape recorder, flicked its switch, and lilting music from “The Merry Widow Waltz” filled my kitchen. Pudding howled, off-key. “I found this in Cherry’s apartment. Inside Jim’s briefcase, which I shouldn’t have touched, but did, and now my fingerprints are all over it. Jim’s been using this tape to drive me crazy.”

  “Put the recorder back in your purse,” she said, her fingers pony-tailing her long flaxen hair. “Snowplows have cleared the streets. After you finish your soup and tea, we’ll visit Dr. Tampoline’s office. Maybe Cherry’s there, playing nurse.”

  Oh my gosh! Cherry Ames, fictional nurse. That’s why the name sounded so familiar. As a kid, I had read Cherry Ames books, along with Nancy Drew, the Hardy boys, and Five Little Peppers.

  * * *

  Dr. Maxwell Gordon bustled about his busy waiting room like an animated Mary Poppins carousel horse. An assortment of Sleepys, Grumpys and Sneezys glared at him. From hidden speakers, Otis Redding’s “Merry Christmas Baby” competed with an eighth dwarf, Coughy. Cherry Ames, also known as Cherry Harwood, was MIA.

  “How are you feeling today, Neslie?” Dr. Gordon’s voice suggested that my illness, on a scale of one to ten, hovered around zero. His welcoming smile, however, hovered around ten. “Do you need a prescription for tranquilizers?”

  “No, but I think you do.” I gestured toward the empty receptionist’s cubicle. Next to a clipboard, a couple of dejected poinsettias hinted that Manhattan was suffering from a major drought. “Do you have time to answer one question?”

  “Dr. Tampoline is due back today. His plane lands at three-forty-seven.”

  “That wasn’t my question. Can you describe your nurse, Cherry Harwood?”

  “Are you kidding? Look at this waiting room. She’s inconsiderate, thoughtless, neglectful—”

  “I meant physically.”

  He gave me a quizzical stare. “She’s your height, blonde, thick ankles.”

  “Busty?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Does she have large breasts? And don’t tell me you’ve never noticed.”

  “She fills a sweater.”

  “Would you say she wears a size D cup?”

  “What size do you wear?” he asked, as Otis Redding finished caroling.

  “Thirty-four B. That’s smaller,” I said, just in case he’d never read a bra tag.

  “Then I’d say ‘D’ was close. Any other questions?”

  “Are you married?”

  “No. I’ve been searching for the p
erfect thirty-four B.”

  I turned at the waiting room door. “Does Cherry have an unusual voice, Dr. Gordon? Breathy? Little girlish?”

  “Yes. She sounds like Marilyn Monroe.” He gave me a tired grin. “Do you happen to know what size brassiere Marilyn wore?”

  The waiting room was silent, breathless. Even Coughy had stopped spraying everyone with his misty spittle.

  “I don’t believe Marilyn wore a bra,” I said. It was one of my better exit lines. Mainly because, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a headache.

  * * *

  Charlene and I decided to meet Dr. Tampoline’s plane.

  Leaving her car in short-term parking, we scanned the faces of the Dallas arrivals, clustered around the baggage trolley. No Dr. Tampoline. However, one man looked a tad familiar, probably because I had known him for twenty-five years. “Hi, Howard,” I said.

  Charlene and I escorted my husband’s business partner to a lounge and let him order a double martini. While he withdrew the olive, I withdrew a used ticket from his pocket. The name on the ticket was Dr. Tampoline’s. I stared at Howard’s face—creased, mournful, his eyes screened by a pair of bifocals. Yes, he could pass for Dr. Tampoline, ifhe had the right I.D. But why would Dr. Tampoline give Howard his I.D.?

  “Where’s Dr. Tampoline, Howard?”

  “I don’t know.” He glanced at his watch as if he had another plane to catch.

  “Yes, you do.” Charlene ordered a Bloody Mary while I told Howard about Jim’s demise. Howard’s face turned as colorless as his martini. Then it turned olive-green. Afraid he might bolt for the bathroom, or throw up between his knees, I said, “Where’s Dr. Tampoline? Tell me now, or I’ll summon Security and let them in on your identity scam.”

  “I would guess he’s at my office,” Howard mumbled.

  “And what would he be doing there?”

  “Trying to find evidence.”

  “What kind of evidence, Howard?”

  His face was now the color of the lime that garnished my sister’s Bloody Mary. After yesterday’s eggnog, I had vowed I’d never drink again. But I’d also vowed to love, honor, and cherish Jim…until I withdrew the plastic rifle from Dr. Tampoline’s fishbowl.

  Listening to Howard, I gulped down his double martini.

  * * *

  The brokerage firm’s receptionist was so surprised to see me, she stopped humming “Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, manufacturing tears. She nodded toward the corner of her desk, where she’d tied a black ribbon around a slim vase. The vase held rose buds, chrysanthemums and holly. “I hate to be rude, Neslie, but I was just about to leave. I need to do some last-minute Christmas shopping.”

  “That’s okay, Jennifer. Is anyone else here?”

  “Not unless they snuck inside while I was going potty down the hall.”

  Impatiently, I waited while Jennifer hid her hair beneath an elf’s stocking cap and changed into a pair of those disgustingly cute ankle-boots, the kind with little red and green Christmas bells on the ends of their laces. Then, entering Howard’s office, I felt Charlene’s huff heat the back of my neck. Her huff echoed mine.

  The office was a mess. Open file drawers spilled their contents. Howard’s antique, roll-top desk looked like a Tim Burton dental patient with mouth agape. Computer paper cascaded across the ultramarine carpet; choppy white waves in an angry sea. I heard a toilet flush behind the closed door of Howard’s private bathroom. Someone had obviously “snuck” past Jennifer. Handing my purse to Charlene, I nodded toward a conference room, adjacent to Howard’s office. She nodded back, entered, and left the door slightly ajar. Sink water gurgled, just before Dr. Tampoline appeared, zipping his fly.

  I waved an imaginary carrot and said, “What’s up, Doc?”

  He gasped like a grounded trout.

  “I met your plane,” I said, “but you weren’t on it.”

  “You shouldn’t be traipsing through crowded airports, Neah Leslie,” he said, regaining his composure. “Not in your condition.” He shook his head mournfully. “For one thing, your immune system—”

  “Knock it off! I have a feeling I might outlive you. Did you find the file?”

  “No.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It must have been in Jim’s office, and the police confiscated all his records. I’ll probably suffer a small scandal, pay a hefty fine, but I’ll be considered an innocent victim.”

  “Innocent? You made a fortune with Jim’s stock scam. I met Howard at the airport. He’s not very good under pressure, Doc. Pressure! Holy shit! Your game plan was to make me believe I was terminally ill and drive me insane with the news. But why?”

  “Jim figured the threat of your mother’s illness would be the last straw, that you’d go into a deep depression.”

  I pictured yesterday’s roses and my dearly departed husband’s card—love always—and any lingering trace of sorrow I might have felt disappeared. “That doesn’t make any sense, Dr. Tampoline. Why didn’t Jim simply ask for a divorce?”

  “Your mother’s trust fund. If you’re dead, or incapacitated, the entire trust reverts to Jim. Your mother liked Jim. She didn’t trust Charlene.”

  I thought I heard an indignant wheeze from the conference room, so I quickly said, “I liked Jim, too. Before Toto stripped away the curtain.”

  “Jim’s been getting inside information about new contracts and mergers. As you know, it’s against the law to release the findings ahead of time. But he told me and a few other friends. We’d buy or sell the stock and give Jim a piece of the action. Obviously, he couldn’t buy the stock himself. Then, when his cut didn’t…shall we say cut the mustard?…he began blackmailing me. I didn’t want to play his dirty trick on you, I swear, but Jim said he had records of our illegal transactions.”

  “If those transactions came to light, Jim would go down with the proverbial ship.”

  “He was desperate, deeply in debt.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We own a beautiful house in an exclusive neighborhood. We even have a Kindle, an iPod and TiVo!”

  “You’ve always lived in such a cocoon, Neah Leslie. Jim knew you wouldn’t get a second opinion when I pronounced your death sentence. But did you know that Jim owns a yacht? Or that he visited Cannes for the film festival?”

  I heard the echo of Dr. Maxwell Gordon’s voice: She’s inconsiderate, thoughtless, neglectful. Surely blonde-bombshell Cherry had visited Cannes with Jim. Why would a couple of busy doctors keep a nurse who was gone more often than not? Dr. Gordon, a new associate, probably had little say in the matter. But Dr. Tampoline—

  “You’ve been having an affair with her, too,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Cherry. Isn’t that the real reason you got rid of Jim?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  My head pounded, trumpeting the start of a headache. In fact, my headache had begun before I’d entered Howard’s office. “You killed Jim. You must have, unless it was Cherry, and somehow I can’t picture a woman who collects ballerinas and teddy bears wielding a knife.”

  Dr. Tampoline paced up and down Howard’s office, leaving shoe prints on top of the computer paper. At long last he halted and puffed up his chest like a bantam cock. “Cherry was my lover, not Jim’s,” he said, his voice vacillating between a whine and a boast. “Sometimes Jim used the apartment for his assignations, or he’d call me there to discuss business.”

  “Here’s my theory, Doc. You found out about Cherry and Jim, killed Jim, then drove to my house and switched the pictures above my bed, finishing the job Jim had begun, making me believe I was crazy.”

  “You are crazy.”

  “The police know the killer used a scalpel,” I fibbed.

  “No, my dear. The way the chest laceration was angled, it could have been any small, sharp knife.”

  “How’d you know the chest wound was angled?”

  “The newspapers.”
>
  “I read the morning papers. They didn’t mention a small sharp knife, or where the injury occurred. Only the killer would know that.”

  “Let’s just call it a lucky guess.” His face clouded then contorted. “You’re right about one thing. Jim was diddling my mistress.”

  Diddling? I had a sudden thought. “Oh my God! You killed Cherry. The roses in your office were for her. You slashed Jim and Cherry. Why did you leave Jim in her apartment?”

  Silence.

  “Want to hear my lucky guess, Doc? You’re an old man. After you carried Cherry to your car, you didn’t have the strength to carry Jim. You dumped Cherry’s body…somewhere. You figured the police would blame Jim’s death on me. Or Howard, who will tell the cops he flew to Dallas. But the airlines have your name, your alibi. Wait a sec. Howard has your driver’s license.”

  Doc’s body language confirmed my lucky guess, but he didn’t respond. I had hoped he’d confess. Wasn’t confessing a fundamental ploy of TV cop shows and stock detective stories?

  I reminded myself that stock detective story confessions almost always sounded clichéd and implausible, while this was real life.

  “You told Howard to mail your license back immediately upon his return,” I continued, still thinking out loud, still plucking my words from thin air.

  Doc shrugged. Then to my surprise he smiled. “Very good, Neah Leslie,” he said.

  I quirked an eyebrow.

  This time his cocky chest looked like a miniature hot-air balloon. “I paid Howard to attend the conference and gave him a round-trip ticket to Mexico for a well-earned Christmas vacation. He should be on his way there right now. But if you go to the police with your ridiculous theory, it’s your word against mine, and I’d guess your friends, not to mention your sister, will substantiate your recent trend toward insanity.”

  “Dr. Gordon knows I’m not insane.”

  “Does he? Maxwell joined my practice six months ago. I have records that date back to your mother’s death, when you actually did go a little crazy.”

  A little crazy? I had sunk into a deep depression, surely the reason why Jim had initiated his nefarious scheme.

  “We’ll see,” I said. Not the greatest exit line. In fact, I sounded bratty, and Dr. Tampoline’s wheezy laugh followed me through the doorway.