Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (8 page)

“I don't see how. All he ever wants from James is money. As soon as he gets it, he goes away.”

“Where does Joseph live?”

“Somewhere in California, the last we knew. He moves around a lot. What with one failed hustle or another, he usually has a lot of people mad at him, and I know for a fact that he's stiffed more than one landlord for his rent.”

“Sounds like a lovely fellow,” I sympathized. “When was the last time you heard from Joseph before yesterday?”

Mary thought for a moment. “Not for more than a year. I'm sure of that, because I remember asking James last year around Christmas if he thought Joseph was likely to turn up and ruin the holiday.”

“Do you think that might be what's going on now?”

“Because he called and wanted to see James? I don't know. I have no idea what he wanted. I just know from previous experience that it's never good news, no matter what tale he spins. That's why I was in no hurry to tell James about his call.”

“So you're sure James didn't yet know about Joseph's call?”

“Not from me, so how else could he know? Unless Joseph did call James at the UCC,” she answered her own question.

“That's possible, I suppose, but I really have no way of knowing. I'll ask Shirley if she remembers a call for James yesterday from a man she didn't recognize.” I changed direction. “How has James been feeling lately? Has he been well? The fundraiser put a lot of stress on everyone, and I know there's a lot of extra reporting and paperwork that goes along with the end of the fiscal year in any organization.”

“The fiscal year for most businesses coincides with the calendar year, but that's not the case with the UCC,” Mary corrected me. “Their fiscal year runs from July first through June thirtieth, so that isn't an issue right now. James has been putting in quite a bit of overtime, though, because they're so short of staff. Having to lay off all those employees was just terrible for him.” She grimaced.

“What layoffs? Sister Marguerite didn't mention anything about having to let people go.” I didn't even try to conceal my surprise.

“About a month ago,” Mary confirmed. “Nearly sixty people were laid off from facilities all over the state, more than ten percent of the employee base.”

I was astounded. “The UCC employs six hundred people? I had no idea.”

Mary smiled sadly. “Very few people realize the scope of the organization or the complexity of its programs. Some of the funding comes from the member churches, but most of it comes in the form of grants from State agencies and private foundations. When those funds dry up, as they did during this recession, the staff positions they support are lost, too. James and Sister did what they could to move people into other slots, but there was only so much they could do.” She shrugged.

I chewed on this for a while. “Was there anyone who took the news especially badly? You know, went ballistic?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not that I was aware of. In fact, James said that most people took the news pretty philosophically. It's more or less a fact of life in the charity business that your job depends on continued funding for the program in which you work. As bad as this economy is, most folks weren't even surprised when they got the official word, let alone devastated.”

I supposed that could be true. Margo, Strutter and I had seen disaster coming months before the bottom fell out of the stock market and had retrenched accordingly to wait it out. I looked Mary full in the eyes.

“What do you think is going on here?” I asked her. “What's your gut feeling?”

Her eyes were bleak. “I haven't the first idea. Yesterday morning, James was looking forward to playing Santa at the gala, and I was preparing for a cruise. This morning, you and I are sitting here trying to figure out what's happened to my missing husband.” She turned her palms up and gazed unseeingly over my shoulder at the stained glass windows. “I just know that whatever it is, it must be very terrible for James to leave me like this.”

Shortly after four-thirty, I stood for a moment in the parking lot, enjoying the crisp December air on my face. Behind me, the Cathedral parking lot was already filling with parents and children for some holiday festivity or other, and across the street the Congregational Church lot was similarly busy. I envied the churchgoers the joy they obviously found in this holiday. If I were a praying woman, this week would certainly have dropped me to my knees. That not being the case, however, I reached out to someone I knew I could count on for comfort and solace. I called Margo and smiled when she answered immediately.

“I thought you'd never get around to callin’. What's the latest on your runaway Santa? Oh, damn. Sorry, Sugar, but I've got a twelve-year-old cop with a bug up who's flashin’ his lights at me. I'll have to pull over here for a sec.”

“Oh, no! Where are you? What did you do?”

“God only knows, somewhere in Newington. I just fought my way out of Hartford with about three thousand commuters who were swervin’ all over the place, cuttin’ me off, and chattin’ on the cell phones they were holding to their ears with complete impunity. Since I drive like a little old lady by comparison, I guess I'm the only one this youngster could catch. Give me a second.”

There was a pause during which Margo presumably pulled over to the curb and prepared to charm the uniform pants off the young traffic cop approaching her car. A conversation between the two ensued, which was punctuated by Margo's flirtatious cooing and giggling. I strained to hear but couldn't make out the words. Perhaps two minutes passed. Margo came back on the line.

“Sorry about that. Where were we?”

“Never mind about that. How much is the ticket?”

Margo chuckled. “As if.”

“You mean, you beat the rap? I hardly dare ask how.”

“Oh, please. These poor guys have people mad at them all day. Our non-hostile conversation probably was a pure relief. Anyway, I'm shocked at your suggestion. You know I'm an entirely respectable married woman these days. I have to behave more appropriately than I did in my single days. Besides,” she giggled again, “he was just too young, Sugar. I had to throw him back. It was the right thing to do.”

I laughed with her as I imagined what putty the young officer had been in Margo's hands. In her day, she had charmed more than a few officers of the law, her husband of the last year among them. “So now that you have escaped doing hard time, can I tell you my troubles, please?”

“You bet, Hon. Tell Mother.”

I proceeded to do so, complete with the details and nuances one saved for one's best friends, and was rewarded with the horrified gasps and sympathetic chuckles that I so desperately needed. “So now what do I do?” I wailed in closing, confident that help was at hand. Despite her Southern Belle persona, Margo was the most level-headed person I had ever met. Through three years of personal and professional crises, not to mention a couple of murder investigations that would bring a lesser woman to her knees, I had never seen Margo anything but poised and competent.

She considered for a moment. “Well, Sugar, for openers, I think you'd better let Strutter cook that goose for you. She'll already be makin’ dinner for that huge family of hers, so one goose more or less won't even faze her. And considerin’ that you're doin’ the whole Norman Rockwell bit for the benefit of Emma's young man, I should think she'd be more than willin’ to help you out with the weddin’. That should free you up to hold Mary O’Halloran's hand. It's not John's jurisdiction, as head of homicide, but he can find out what's goin’ on with the missin’ persons investigation once it gets under way. I'll have him get in touch.”

Her unhesitating advice led me to marvel, not for the first time, at her efficiency. The woman was a force of nature. Probably due to my weakened state, tears filled my eyes, and I began to sniffle. “Thank you,” I managed to choke as I rifled through my purse for a tissue. “You and Strutter have already done so much. It's just that Armando is away, and Mary needs my support right now, and Jasmine is so sad without Simon.”

“Pish tosh,” she cut my gratitude short. “Everyone will be glad to help out. It's Christmas, after all, and what are friends for? At least this time, you aren't draggin’ us into a murder investigation.”

B
y
Saturday morning, I was in the worst mood I could remember for quite some time. Nevertheless, it was the one day I had available to accomplish the many errands that had piled up during the work week, so I dragged myself into jeans and a jacket and sallied forth. By eight o'clock, I was fighting shopping cart gridlock at the Rocky Hill Stop ‘n’ Shop, and after quick stops at the gas station and drugstore, I hurried home to collect Jasmine for her ten o'clock appointment with Dr. DuPont at Catzablanca, our cat clinic. Jasmine had all but stopped eating, and I was at my wits’ end.

The young women at the front desk made their usual fuss over my old girl, but she didn't break into her customary purr. “What's wrong with her?” I pleaded with Dr. Linda after she had given Jasmine a thorough going over. Linda had been our trusted veterinarian for nearly twenty years. She had pulled Jasmine back from the brink of death several years back. If anyone could put her right, it was Linda. Now she took her stethoscope out of her ears and looked thoughtful as she scritched Jasmine under the chin.

“She's lonely,” she finally pronounced. “Jasmine has never been an only cat. She's always been one of a herd, or at least she's had one feline companion. She's a feisty old cat, and she had her issues with Simon and Oliver and Lucy and who else came before that?”

I smiled sadly. It was true that Jasmine had outlived a number of former housemates.

“I'm just not ready for a new cat. Simon was my special boy, my loving shadow, for fifteen years. He slept with me every night and woke me up every morning. I'm still mourning him. Besides, I thought Jasmine might enjoy having the place to herself for a while.”

“Obviously, she doesn't,” Linda pointed out briskly. “There's nothing wrong with her physically, aside from being nearly twenty years old, but she's clearly pining. I have a kennel full of cats and kittens in the back who need good homes. Shall we go take a look?”

I knew she was right, but with everything else I had on my plate, today was not the day to adopt a new cat.

“The week after next,” I promised Linda and Jasmine. “We'll do it right after Christmas. I just have to get through the holiday first.”

Ten minutes later, I dumped Jasmine out of her carrier on the floor of my kitchen. As usual, she ran for the safety of the bedroom. I put a dollop of chicken baby food into her dish in case she got hungry later, then headed back to the car for my second round of errands.

The next stop was the bank, where the flu had decimated the employee ranks. Only two tellers were open, and the line stretched out the door. I don't wait well when I'm in the best of moods, and today didn't qualify. By the time I finally made it to the head of the line, the teller and I matched each other snarl for snarl.
Ho ho ho.

In that gloomy state of mind, I idled at the end of the bank's driveway, waiting for an opportunity to make a left onto Old Main Street. None presented itself, but what did I expect on the Saturday before Christmas? The charming shops and eating establishments of the historic district made attractive destinations for locals and tourists alike, not to mention the always popular museums. At this time of year, the exterior lights and decorations alone were sufficient to draw crowds. I was glad for the shopkeepers who were struggling in this economy but not for those of us who had to negotiate the resulting traffic.

A large Hart Seed truck lumbered by en route to its home base a mile or so down Old Main Street. I darted into the space right behind it. Almost immediately, the truck driver jammed on his brakes, and I practically had to stand on mine. “What the?” I said out loud, and then I saw what.

The truck's hazard lights began flashing, and the burly, middle-aged driver leaped out of his cab. His eyes were fixed on a pair of geese, still slim with youth. They hesitated on the far side of the road, which they clearly intended to cross. Recklessly, the driver ran to stand between them and the traffic coming out of Old Wethersfield. Time seemed to stop as I held my breath.

Traffic stopped for crossing waterfowl was a common occurrence during the warm months of the year. Extended marshland ran about a block behind and parallel to the Silas Deane Highway, and residents were accustomed to keeping a sharp eye out for the ducks, geese and swans that unaccountably felt compelled to risk their lives to cross the roads. At this time of year, though, we expected the birds to have moved south for the winter.

After long seconds of silent consideration, the pair reached a goosey consensus and made their way across the pavement. They crossed from my left to my right and disappeared in front of the truck. The crossing safely accomplished, the driver waved briefly to acknowledge the stopped drivers and clambered back into his cab. We all went about our business.

I found myself grinning, my former pique dispersed. It had been such a small incident, but it encompassed all of the compassion and decency necessary to restore my good humor. The truck driver had stopped. Nobody had honked or screamed obscenities at him. The geese were safe in the marsh. As far as I was concerned, it was Christmas in a nutshell.