Neslie's Christmas Crunch Read online

  Charlene had used a conference room exit to “go potty down the hall.” But first she’d captured Dr. Tampoline’s words on the merry-widow-waltz tape. And while it wasn’t a full-boogie confession, it could be deemed a tad incriminating, especially when Sergeant Leonard heard Doc’s remarks about the knife, which, in my opinion, was a smoking gun.

  Our next stop was Leonard’s steam-cleaned carpet.

  * * *

  I wasn’t hungry but my sister had cooked up a sumptuous dinner. Pudding lay at my feet, gulping down the tidbits I surreptitiously fed him.

  “Would you do the dishes?” Charlene stood, stretched and yawned. Then she put on her coat and a pair of stretchy black leather gloves. “I really must go home, check my phone messages and feed my cat.”

  “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

  “I adopted her last month. God, I’m tired.”

  “Me, too. I can’t thank you enough for all your help, Charlene.”

  “That’s what sisters are for, Neslie.”

  “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. If Dr. Tampoline was diligently dumping Cherry’s body, he couldn’t have switched my bedroom pictures. Unless he stopped here on the way. I suppose that’s possible—damn! My new bracelet, my Bloomies stuff. I wanted to look nice in my casket and have Jim foot the bill. If I’m not due to die, I’d better make some returns.”

  “Why not keep everything? You never know when you’ll need it.”

  That sounded a tad cryptic, but before I could respond the doorbell rang.

  A florist’s truck squatted at my curb and the kid from yesterday handed me red roses. Their moist buds were illuminated by my porch light. I reached for my purse, which I had left on the vestibule table. It wasn’t there.

  “I’ll tip him,” Charlene said.

  “I’m sure my purse was on that table,” I said, thrusting the roses beneath my armpits, extracting the card and reading the words out loud. “Love always, Jim.” I felt my throat constrict, just before I ran down the path toward the delivery truck. “Wait! Stop! Who ordered these flowers?”

  The kid turned around. “Whoever signed the card, ma’am.”

  “It’s not signed, it’s printed. When were the roses ordered? Yesterday?”

  “No way. We guarantee local delivery within three hours.”

  “But they could have been ordered yesterday, scheduled for delivery tonight,” I said, thinking out loud. “Who placed the order?” I asked somewhat desperately, knowing the delivery kid wouldn’t have a clue.

  “I don’t have a clue, ma’am.”

  I raced back up the path and brushed past Charlene. Still anchoring the roses under my arm, I called the number printed at the top of the card and, somewhat hysterically, persuaded the manager to check the receipt.

  “The order was phoned in an hour ago,” he said.

  “Did you take the order? Which credit card did he use?”

  “I didn’t take the order. American Express.”

  “Would you read me the card’s numbers?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am.”

  “What if I gave you the numbers? You could verify…” I swallowed the rest of my words. My purse was missing, which meant my credit card was missing.

  Then I simply dropped the receiver as the family room spun round and round, not unlike Cherry’s ballerinas. Maybe I really was insane.

  I heard music. Christmas music. Judy Garland.

  Staring at Charlene, I said, “Turn off the music.”

  She said, “What music?”

  The long-stemmed roses dangled down my side, a third thorny arm, and I couldn’t breathe. Stumbling toward the front door, I reached for the knob. I needed fresh air. My head thumped and soon it would explode.

  “Neslie, stop it!” Charlene blocked the exit. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Going crazy,” I said. “The police have Jim’s tape recorder, but I hear music. Jim’s dead, but he switched the pictures and called the florist and—oh, God, headache. Migraine. Need sedative. Need Dr. Tampoline. No, Dr. Gordon.”

  “You don’t need a doctor, sweetie. I have tranquilizers. They’ll help you sleep and you’ll feel much better tomorrow.” Reaching into her coat pocket, Charlene pulled out a container filled with pills.

  “My head hurts. Oh, God, I want peace.”

  “Yes. Peace. Take the tranquilizers, Neslie.”

  “How many?”

  “Two, three, ten, all of them, however many bring you peace.”

  “I want to give you a present, Charlene. You’ve been so great. How about my new emerald bracelet? You said you loved green stones.”

  Suddenly the world stopped spinning as a thought, a coherent thought, clicked into place. At the same time, Judy stopped singing.

  “Maybe another time,” Charlene said, pressing the pill container against my palm. “Why don’t you wash these down with our leftover dinner wine? I’ve got to get going, sweetie.”

  “Yes, I know. To feed your cat. Your white Persian cat. Does she have a collar, Charlene? A jeweled collar that looks like my emerald bracelet?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve met your cat, sweetie. She was in Cherry’s apartment. Actually, Dr. Tampoline’s apartment, listed in the phone directory under Cherry’s fictitious name because Dr. Tampoline did his illegal business transactions there. But Dr. Tampoline said he loaned the apartment to Jim for assignations. I’ll bet my emerald bracelet the yellow roses were for you, Charlene. Cherry arrived during her lunch break, while you were gone, shopping for groceries, and Jim couldn’t resist her charms. Dr. Tampoline found them and killed them. You came back, just before I got there. When I knocked, you hid inside the front-hall closet. While I visited Cherry’s bedroom, you snatched up the pet stocking, grabbed your cat, and fled. I missed a clue, thanks to my damn migraine. Actually, two clues. I naturally assumed that anyone who collects teddy bears would turn the TV to Sesame Street, but that’s always been your thing, your favorite show.”

  She shrugged. “And clue number two?”

  “If the cat was Cherry’s, it would have clawed the tassels on her couch cushions. And her potpourri sachets. I don’t know why you had your cat with you, Charlene, but my educated guess is that you’d scheduled an appointment for one of those disgustingly cute pet-with-Santa photos.” I glanced at my wall, at the framed photo of Pudding perched on Santa’s lap.

  From the heating ducts, I heard Barbra Streisand singing Gounod’s “Ave Maria.”

  “Oh my God! You’ve got a tape recorder, too!” I walked into the family room and hung up the phone. “You’re the one who switched my pictures and hid my stuff. You and Jim planned it together. The deal was suicide, not insanity. That way Jim could inherit my trust fund, pay off his debts, and squire you around the world on his yacht. Obviously, you didn’t know he was ‘squiring’ another blonde.”

  Briefly, I wondered why Charlene had concocted her latest plan…more roses…to drive me nuts. But the answer was obvious. She knew I had no will. With Jim dead, and me dead, she would inherit my trust fund. By default. My fault. Despite my pounding headache, I laughed.

  “What’s so damn funny, Neslie?”

  “Suddenly everyone’s name starts with a ‘C’ and everyone’s big-breasted. The bra I found was yours, but Cherry called my house. You’d never do that because I’d recognize your voice. Did it ever occur to you that once Jim got his hands on my trust fund, he’d leave you flat?”

  Her nostrils flared. “Of course it did. But he knew I’d kill…” She stopped short.

  “Who really killed Jim, Charlene? Did you find out about Cherry and finish what the good doctor started? Did you put a pillow over Jim’s face? Or one of Cherry’s teddy bears? I suppose the cops could check the bears for DNA.”

  I held up my hand like a school crossing guard, dimly realizing I’d made the identical gesture inside Dr. Tampoline’s office, after he had pronounced my death sentence, the bastar
d. “Never mind,” I said. “Don’t tell me. Go home and feed your cat. I’ll be drafting a will, leaving everything to Pudding. Then I’ll draft codicils, leaving everything to subsequent Yorkshire Terriers. And don’t even think about killing them off, you conniving witch, because then my trust fund would revert to the SPCA.” I envisioned Dr. Gordon, who preferred a 34-B bra. “Meanwhile, I might play the very merry widow.”

  I watched my sister stomp outside, inhale the frosty night air, start her car, drive away. Then I thrust the roses into an empty milk carton. My head still throbbed, so I called Dr. Maxwell Gordon’s service. He got back to me immediately.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said.

  “Five minutes? Good grief, Dr. Gordon, where are you calling from?”

  “My cell phone. I was on my way to your house. And it’s Max.”

  Alvin and cohorts were trilling naughty and nice from the Christmas tree when I met Max at the front door. It had begun to snow again, thick heavy flakes, and I had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to leave tonight.

  “The lab called with your test results,” he said. “But your phone was busy and I didn’t want to wait until next week.”

  The phone hadn’t been busy. The phone had been dangling. Or as Doc would say, diddling. I swallowed a giggle. Delayed reaction.

  Suddenly, Max’s words sank in. “Next week?” I echoed. “What about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas. In fact, the office will be closed until December twenty-seventh, with emergency calls routed to Dr. Tampoline.”

  I didn’t bother to tell him that by now Dr. Tampoline was incarcerated. Instead, I nestled against his stalwart chest and said, “Did the lab find out what’s causing my headaches?”

  “Yes,” Max said. “You’re allergic to roses.”

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