Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (16 page)

They blinked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.

“Which word didn't you understand? Go. Right now.” I turned them toward the kitchen and hustled them, none too gently, down the hallway.

At this interesting juncture, Armando appeared in the doorway from the garage. The first thing I noticed was that he looked exhausted. The second was the dainty, ginger-colored cat struggling to free herself from the confines of his TeleCom windbreaker, which was zipped firmly beneath her chin. Armando's eyes sought mine, as they did whenever we were reunited after an extended absence, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Emma and Joey continued to quarrel at top volume, oblivious to Armando's arrival.

“You made it,” I finally managed, overwhelmed with love, gratitude and, yes, relief. After days of feeling the emotional sands shifting beneath my feet, I felt solid footing blessedly returning. “Who's your friend?” I pulled him into the hallway and scritched the cat's head gently.

“It is as if our conversation on the phone last evening was overheard. I know you are not ready yet for another cat,
Cara
. You have not finished grieving for your Simon, but this one cannot wait. She needs us now. Also, Jasmine very much needs a new companion. Can you not open your heart for her and for this little one?”

“Where did you find her?”

“I did not. She found me. Someone abandoned her in the airport parking lot. When the shuttle bus dropped me off near my car, she came out from under an S. U. V. and wrapped herself around my ankles. She chose me to help her, and I could not refuse.”

A choppy purr emanated from the pumpkin-colored mite, and her eyelids drooped over eyes the color of amber. Armando was correct. I wasn't ready for another cat, but what was I to do? Emma and Joey finally exhausted their sibling rhetoric and gazed at the newcomer silently, then at me. It was clear that I had quickly been outnumbered.

“Welcome to the family,” I told the little hairball with resignation. “I sure hope you like turkey.”

“Make that extremely well-done turkey,” Joey commented, wrinkling his nose at a suspicious odor seeping from the oven. “How long has that thing been roasting anyway?”

“Too long,” I replied, not particularly caring. “It doesn't matter now. I really don't care for turkey.”

“Well, I do, and I'm starving. At least let me take some home to Justine.” Before I could warn him not to, he yanked open the oven door, releasing a cloud of greasy fumes. As I had known they would, all five smoke alarms in the house went off simultaneously.

“The windows!” I shrieked at Emma and Joey after a moment of stunned silence. “Throw open as many as you can while I get rid of this thing.”

Armando fled upstairs with the terrified cat, presumably to shut her into his room while we dealt with this latest catastrophe. I slid my hands into oven mitts and grabbed the heavy pan holding the smoking turkey carcass.

“Open the back door, quick,” I begged, and Joey sprang to oblige. He held the storm door wide as I eased by him with the ruined bird and deposited it, hissing in the wet snow, on the back deck.

I propped the door open with a deck chair, and we returned inside to help Emma and Armando wrestle open more windows. After what seemed like an eternity, the smoke alarms stuttered, then stopped.
If we ever have a real fire in the middle of the night,
I thought,
we'll be far more likely to have heart attacks from being awakened by these hellacious alarms than to expire from fire or smoke.

Armando had propped open the front door, as well, to create a clearing draft straight through the house. The four of us stood shivering in the cold living room. In the sudden quiet, an obscene, wet pop burst from the turkey carcass on the deck. Joey snorted.

“Turkey fart,” he choked before exploding into guffaws.

Armando struggled to keep a straight face but quickly gave up the battle, joining Joey in raucous laughter. Emma and I exchanged eye rolls.
Boys will be boys.
She trudged upstairs to begin closing windows while I went to shut the doors. The men made a half-hearted attempt to deal with the downstairs windows, still chortling and wiping their eyes.

Jasmine, roused from her endless nap not by the noise, thanks to her deafness, but by the strange smells and drop in temperature, came into the room, sniffing madly, which was when we all remembered the cat shut in Armando's room. The poor thing probably wished herself back in the airport parking lot.

“Oh, boy, have we got a surprise for you,” I told Jasmine, scooping her up and ruffling her fur, “but first, let's get this fireplace going.”

An hour later, stuffed with candied yams and green bean casserole, we considered and rejected dessert. The ginger cat, having been fed and shown the litter box, hid behind the sofa. Jasmine lay on her pillow before the fire, quiet but alert for a possible sneak attack by the newcomer.

“At least she's not asleep,” I observed, leaning contentedly against Armando where we sat together on the sofa.

“Which is more than can be said about Armando,” Emma pointed out. I turned my head to look at him sleeping soundly where he sat. It had been a long flight and an eventful day.

“I've never understood how he can sleep sitting up,” I mused.

“I do it all the time. Justine says I sleep better in the recliner than I do in bed,” Joey chimed in.

“It has to be a guy thing. Show them a good time, fill their bellies, and they fall asleep on you every time,” Emma concluded with her old sassiness. “Well, as much fun as this has been, I think I'll go have a drink with Lori and John. They're having some people over tonight, and I'm invited.” She consulted her watch. “Good grief. It's not even nine o'clock.” She scrambled to her feet and looked at her brother. “Feel like coming along?”

Well, well,
I thought,
the ultimate peace offering.

“Thanks, but I think I'd better get back to my old lady,” Joey replied. “The flu's made her cranky enough already. Besides, I don't want to have to witness you taking all the abuse they're going to give you about Jared. I might have to defend your honor or something.” His eyes conveyed more sympathy than his gruff words, a fact which was not lost on Emma, I felt certain.

“Yeah, well, I might as well get it over with,” was her mild reply. “They all told me …
you
all told me,” she corrected herself, “that Jared was bad news right from the start. I may as well wash down the crow I'm going to have to eat with some decent champagne. I can always crash there for the night. Come on. Help me clean up these dishes before we go.”

Her brother got to his feet and helped her collect the detritus from our casual meal in front of the fireplace. The sounds of dishes being rinsed for the dishwasher and their amiable banter drifted in from the kitchen.

“You're not really asleep, right?” I said to Armando.

He smiled but kept his eyes shut. “It is good to hear Emma sounding more like herself, is it not?”

“Believe me, nobody's happier about that than I am.” I fell silent, not wanting to blow his cover.

A few minutes later, Emma and Joey departed after whispering goodbyes and kissing my cheek. As glad as I had been to see them, I relished the peace and quiet that filled the house after they left.

“All clear,” I told Armando. He opened his eyes but didn't move. “Would you like some dessert now? God knows, there are plenty of choices. I even made a coconut layer cake, if you can believe it. I know Margo couldn't,” I chuckled.

“Dessert, yes, but cake is not what I have in mind.” He captured my hand in his and brought it to his lips. I began to get his drift.

“I thought you were tired,” I teased him.

“I have never been too tired for dessert,
Cara
,” he assured me and turned toward me for a lingering kiss.

I had to admit that despite his long day, he seemed pretty feisty. My own exhaustion seemed to be disappearing, too.

“Well, then, dessert it is,” I murmured. “My place or yours?”

“Don't think of it as incarceration. Consider it protective custody,” I told the ginger cat. She sat on the floor next to Armando's bed, ready to dart beneath it if she felt threatened. Apparently, she felt threatened a lot, since she spent as much time under the bed as she did on top of it; but despite her surface timidity, I was beginning to see signs of a mischievous spirit.

“At least it is warm and dry. You could still be freezing your
bonita
tail off in that parking lot,” Armando reminded her.

We were installing two baby gates, one on top of the other, in the doorway of Armando's bedroom to keep Jasmine away from the newcomer until she could be tested by the vet for feline leukemia and other contagious diseases. The baby gates had been thoughtfully provided this morning by my octogenarian neighbor Mary, who to my knowledge hadn't thrown anything away in decades. Her house looked like a Goodwill store, but I had to admit that her packrat tendencies came in handy from time to time.

“There,” I said, having adjusted the tension bar on the topmost gate to my satisfaction. I released it, stepped over the bottom gate to join Armando in the hall, and put it back into position. “You can see out, but you can't get out. More to the point, Jasmine can't get in. You can get used to each other's scents for a couple of days. Then we'll get you tested, and we'll see.”

The cat yawned and retreated beneath the edge of the spread, unimpressed with my logic. We were about to start down the stairs when Armando put a hand on my arm and pointed. Sitting at the foot of the staircase like a self-appointed sentinel was our old girl, her tail wrapped tightly around her feet.

“A very good sign, is it not?” said Armando quietly. I nodded.

“Up until last night, she hadn't been out of my room in days except to use the litter box. Your being home improved her outlook, but the new cat has given her a whole new interest in life.”

“So we are keeping her?”

I refused to attach myself before I knew her feline leukemia status. The last thing poor old Jasmine needed was an infectious disease. “Jury's still out,” I said firmly and led the way to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee.

Having dreaded Christmas for weeks, it was lovely to have Armando safely at home and the day pretty much to ourselves. I had missed him terribly. True, Christmas Eve had been a disaster in many ways, but at least the Jared situation had been resolved, and Emma seemed well on her way to becoming her old self. Margo and Strutter would be relieved to hear it, I knew. I wondered how Margo's restaurant dinner with John had gone last night and whether Strutter and her family were on the road to recovery from the flu, but I knew we would catch up before the day was over. For the moment, it was more than enough to have Armando drinking coffee with me and Jasmine basking in the sunlight at the foot of the stairs, instead of moping in my bedroom.

Against all odds, we had gotten through the events of yesterday relatively unscathed, and the next ordeal, Jeff's and Donna's wedding, was two days away. The situation with the UCC and the O’Hallorans was undeniably tragic, but I had done everything I knew how to do, and now it was up to the professionals to solve the case. Margo's information about Joseph and Roberta being married was startling, to say the least, but then, everything about this sad little saga had been surprising. I certainly had no insights to offer.

Margo and John were enjoying their first Christmas as a married couple, and Strutter's mom had her household well in hand. Emma and Joey would spend today with their father and Sheila. I was officially off duty.

Being with Armando, with nowhere that we were committed to go and no one we were obliged to see, was more Christmas than I had expected this year, and I planned to savor every moment. We took our mugs into the living room and pulled the drapes wide open to enjoy the morning sunshine. After a week of sleet, rain, and spitting snow, Christmas day was a dazzler.

“It is good to be home,” said Armando, drawing me close for a coffee-flavored kiss. “Look,
Cara
.” He pointed out the window toward the treeline. “Your feathered friends have come to see you.”

Three, four, then seven wild turkeys bobbed cautiously across the back lawn, keeping close to the woods.

“They probably think it's safe to come out now that everyone's Christmas dinner is already in the oven,” I smiled. I remembered the ruined carcass on the deck. “We'd better get that burned turkey into the garbage before some poor scavenger gets a bone stuck in its throat.”

The turkeys heard me open the door to the deck and fluttered in agitation before scuttling into the underbrush.

“Sorry, guys,” I apologized. Last night's dinner was exactly where I had deposited it, greasily charred and intact. “I guess even the local wildlife wouldn't touch it,” I joked to Armando, who held open the door. A sudden snarling was our only alert before two coyotes, gaunt and leggy, slunk from the woods and made a dash for the deck, intent on the pan I held. I was momentarily stunned. “Drop it!” Armando yelled. He shook the turkey out of my hands and snatched me roughly back into the house. Within seconds, the coyotes were tearing the carcass apart as three more rushed out of the woods to join the fray. We watched, aghast, as they ripped through the eighteen-pound bird as if it were a canary, their yellow eyes gleaming, bones flying in all directions. The coyotes snapped and snarled for perhaps one full minute. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone, melting back into the brush along with the wild turkeys.