Bad to the Last Drop (17 page)

Startled, Pat realized he assumed she had made them. Avoiding a direct lie, after all it was close to Christmas, she said piously, "Like them? They were Joe's favorites. Have another. I can always order more."

Helping himself, he started once again to apologize for his young partner.

"Don't think about it," Pat said, waving off his concern. "It's not as if I haven't heard it before. It was the 'old' part that I objected to." She took a cookie, letting it melt in her mouth, then chewing up the crunchy nut. "But I'm warning you, it won't stop us from helping the sisters all we can."

He smiled. "Truce, then."

Deb arrived home in the early twilight. She felt the chill on her cheeks as she gathered all her Christmas shopping purchases from the car. She had to admit that shopping this year had become more of a chore. Unloading everything inside the house, she found Marc's note, reminding her that he'd gone to his monthly sailing meeting and that Eric had ski practice.

Rather than spend the evening alone, Deb took the opportunity to visit Pat. She walked eagerly up the street to the big yellow Victorian and found her friend sitting at the dining room table, addressing hand made Christmas cards.

"I'll put on the tea kettle," Deb offered. As the kettle heated, she thought about Sarah Martin, Mike Williamson, and Father Luke. Her head was awash with crazy thoughts. She could hardly believe that she was actually considering the idea that one of the pillars of Ashland could be responsible for a murder. "Listen, Pat," she said suddenly, "Here's the deal—if Joe was murdered, and my instincts tell me that he was, it seems logical that we have to look at motive. Let's start with Sarah Martin. What would her motive be?"

Pat passed the plate of cookies and sweets that she had arranged artfully on the green deco glass plate. "We know that she has had major money problems in the past. And she always appears to be running away from something. But I wonder about Father Luke. I was talking to him today and there was a ... a sense of mystery in the way he was talking to me about his dealings with

Joe. Almost like he wanted to tell me something but was held back by more than the confidence of the confessional."

"Oh, Pat!" Deb interjected. "Do you really suspect that someone as devout as Father Luke could do such a thing? What could possibly make a man like him stoop to murder?"

"The same thing that causes other priests to do unspeakable things. We are only human, after all," Pat insisted.

"Well, I'm wondering about Mike Williamson," Deb said. "I was shocked to find an IOU in the bank box from his father to Joe for $100,000. That's a lot of money. And he really creeped me out when he didn't want to show us the bank statements. There is definitely something not right there. I would stake my mother's spoon cookies on it."

Pat took a sip of tea and shook her head. "I don't know if it's going to be possible to figure this out by ourselves. I hate to say it, but we just might need to ask for help."

Deb nodded her agreement, although she couldn't shake the nagging thought that they really couldn't leave it alone.

Early the next day, as Pat and Deb were walking to coffee at the Black Cat, Mike Williamson walked briskly past them from across the street.

"Hi, Mike," Pat called out to him. "Are you trying to keep one step ahead of the bill collectors this morning?"

"What makes you think that?" Mike shot back defensively, as he stopped short in his tracks.

"Oh, we've managed to find out lots of secrets in this town in the last few weeks," Deb bragged. "Things just aren't what they seem. You know, Mike, these are not ordinary times. For all I know,
anyone
could be a killer, even someone as respectable as you. After all, we found an IOU in the safety deposit box that we think proves that you owed Joe money."

A flush of deep red began creeping up Mike's neck. "Me? You don't possibly think I had anything to do with poor old Joe's demise!" he said indignantly. "Why on earth would someone in my position want to kill him? You two are as crazy as Joe was."

Mike stormed off and as soon as they knew he was out earshot, Deb said softly, "So much for his being a suspect. I don't believe now that he did it."

With a nod, Pat opened the door to the strong aroma of fresh brew from within.

The following Saturday at four in the afternoon, Deb and Marc bundled up in their down jackets, mittens, and face masks and trundled down the block toward Main Street for Ashland's 'Garland City Santa Claus Parade'. Pat and Mitchell joined them as they passed their house for the walk down. Eric was playing trombone in the high school marching band that led the parade down Main Street.

The temperature had been dropping steadily during the day and now, at parade time, it was minus twenty degrees, but with a strong wind blowing off the lake, the temperature felt much colder. They arrived at the corner of Main Street and were greeted cheerily by their neighbors and several people that they knew. Rich and Rita, the B&B owners were there and Jason and Natalie, the cute young newlyweds. Deb gazed enviously at the two couples, who stood snuggled happily together. Several people had brought their dogs.
I wish I had brought Strider. He would love greeting all these people,
she thought. Randy Johnson was there with his daughter, Sunshine. Randy looked like a wooden German Santa all bundled up with his gray beard and ruddy cheeks. Randy was talking with Bill, Randy's fellow artist and kindred spirit from the Black Cat. He greeted them warmly and made room for them to stand on the curb where they could see. Mitchell stomped his feet to keep warm, and Marc pulled out the video camera and capture Eric as he marched past. Deb looked up the street in both directions and noticed that the Christmas decorations were glowing brightly. In the shape of white snowflakes, the white lighted silhouettes glistened and sparkled in the early dusk, lending a cheery aura to the festivities.

Cannons! Within minutes of their arrival at the parade site, the ground shook under their feet as the sound of cannon being shot off down the street echoed up the boulevard. Deb peered expectantly down the street toward the start of the parade, and soon, the procession began: the proud color guard of old soldiers; a police car with its red lights flashing; the mayor in his shiny open-topped red convertible, dressed in muffler and red Santa hat, happily tossing candy and waving. The baton twirlers preceded the band, carrying their white wooden rifles and clad only in their leotards, purple sequined bathing suits, white gloves, and tasseled boots. Deb's heart beat with pride as she spotted Eric and his peers, stepping lively to the strains of "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town." The band looked and sounded good—Deb couldn't imagine playing those cold instruments, even with gloves on.

The display of handmade floats was impressive this year. There was the usual "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" banner that adorned the flatbed truck that carried the live Nativity characters, courtesy of the Baptist church. Then there was a bevy of dancing Rudolphs, representing the Neighborly Bar, replete with antlers and red noses that lit up with blinking red lights. A procession continued with tinsel-clad floats representing every civic organization that had enough ambition to put together an entry: the Girl Scouts, the Elks Club, several churches, the high school football team. The horse-and-buggies brought up the rear, beautifully festooned with turn-of-the-century costumed drivers and sparkly red and green bows on the manes of the horses.

Bill Montgomery, standing in front of Pat and Deb, turned around and smiled at them. Deb introduced Bill to Marc and Mitchell as one of their front-table raging liberals from the Black Cat. Bill shook hands with each man, adding, "You better keep a closer eye on these girls. They seem to think that they know better than everyone else what the real scoop is with people."

Deb was stung by his words, and responded defensively, "That's because we do know more than most. In fact, you'd be surprised to learn just how much we know."

Pat gave her a nudge and rolled her eyes, but Bill didn't appear to notice.

"Say, I have something to show you two," he said. "I have been working on some portraits and would love to hear what you think of them? Do you have a few minutes to come up to my place for a little art exhibition? It's just up the street a few blocks."

Deb could tell that Marc was itching to leave—it was cold and nearly time for dinner. She turned to her husband. "Why don't you and Mitchell go to the Black Cat and get yourself something warm to drink and a bite to eat?" she suggested. "Pat and I can go have a look at Bill's exhibition." She lowered her voice as she said, "This guy has no family and is pretty lonely at this time of year."

Marc smiled gratefully. "Sure, you go have a look. We'll meet you later at the Black Cat."

Mitchell and Marc walked towards the Black Cat with relief, just as Santa and Mrs. Claus appeared, rotund and jolly in their fuzzy red and white overstuffed costumes, a white spotlight shining on them. There they were, perched high on the ladder truck, waving and delighting the throngs of the young in spirit. Deb looked closer.
Could it be? No—how on earth??

Under the white beard and white wig, she recognized the familiar faces of her dear neighbors, Joel and Ruth Epstein. Ruth, the coroner, was Mrs. Claus!
Now there's a sight you don't see often!
The Epsteins appeared to be happily enjoying the adoring joy surrounding the children's faces.
A Jewish Santa!

Picking up his cell phone, Peter Thomas let out a sigh of relief as he heard a familiar woman's voice on the other end. "Hello, Colonel?"

"Where the hell have you been?" he barked, his usual calm control broken. "You were supposed to call in days ago. What have you got for me?"

Andy Ross put down the sandwich he was eating. "Is that St. Kitts?"

Shooting him a stern glance to silence him, Peter returned to the phone. "Yes, yes, and what about ...?" He paused, listening again. "Are you quite sure? We need to know for sure. A lot is at stake here." Without looking at his partner, he called over his shoulder,

"Andy, light somewhere, will you? Your pacing is distracting, and this connection isn't good." Listening again to the phone, he visibly relaxed, and then a smile formed as he said, "Good job. If what you say is true, then Abramov's death couldn't have been from our end of things. Poor old Joey must have stepped on someone else's toes. When will you be back in Washington? ... All right, we'll pack up and meet you there." Hanging up the phone, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head and smiling at his eager young companion.

"Well?" Andy asked eagerly.

Peter smiled but didn't speak immediately.

"Come on, give! Are you going to tell me or not?" Andy demanded sitting down across from him.

The older man answered, "All's well. Our informant says Joe wasn't dealing information." He motioned to the chair. "He stayed true blue. Our operatives are safe. And so are our codes. I just knew he couldn't sell out. So any secrets Joe had—and believe me, there are things about the Bay of Pigs." He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "Anyway, he took any secrets with him to his grave."

"But what about the property on St. Kitts? And the bank accounts?" persisted Andy.

Peter stood up and placed his suitcase on the bed. "Joe may have been unlucky in love and unlucky in war, but I guess his luck had to come out somewhere. Believe it or not, not only have we been paying him dearly for information, but in a sense, he did win another lottery. It's called buying Microsoft before it split."

"But who killed him?"

"I haven't the foggiest. Maybe you should ask 'the girls.'" Seeing his young partner frown, he added, "Anyway, it's not our concern. Let's pack up and stop in at the Black Cat for one last cup. I swear that Blue Mountain coffee is bad to the very last drop."

Down at the desk, the young man on duty looked at them speculatively. "Back to Washington, is it, folks?" he asked. "You have a nice trip, you hear? And come back when the smelt are running."

Loading their gear into the black rental car, Andy turned to his partner. "You go have your coffee, old man," he said with a grin. "I'm heading down to the Deepwater Bar for a man's drink to celebrate."