Murder Most Merry (55 page)

It wasn’t exactly foolproof, but it ought to work. He’d own Screwy again and Mitzi would be gone from his life.

He chuckled at the thought. Yeah, the idea of killing her off had come to him this afternoon and he’d taken to it immediately.

Tish might be a little suspicious about how he came by the dummy. He’d tell her something along the lines that he’d found the heirs of the old defunct prop man at the last minute and. gosh, they had a spare Screwy Santa. He’d always been a gifted liar and conning his daughter wouldn’t be all that difficult.

“Don’t worry about that now,” he told himself.

“How’s that?” inquired Borneo, setting a glass of sparkling water down in front of him.

“Nothing, I was just—”

“That must be some fire.” Borneo paused to listen as yet another truck went howling by out in the night.

Oscar sipped the club soda, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the dark bar top. He’d make his move in about five minutes.

The phone behind the bar rang and Borneo caught it up. “Borneo’s. Huh? Channel eight? Okay.” Hanging up, he switched channels on the large television set mounted above the mirror.

And there was Mitzi, glowering out of the screen. Wearing a fuzzy bathrobe and not enough makeup, she was being interviewed by a slim black newswoman and gesturing at the mansion that was blazing behind her up across the wide night lawn.

“Good God,” muttered Oscar.

“That’s just downhill from us,” observed Borneo.

“Yeah, I know.”

The entire sprawling house was going up in flames.

“What exactly happened, Mrs. Sayler?” the reporter asked her.

“It was that goddamn cheesehead.”

“Which cheesehead would that be?”

“Screwy Santa, that abominable dummy.”

“I’m not certain that I quite under—”

“Aw, you’re too damn young. Everybody is these days. I always knew that dornick would do me in eventually.”

“You mean this was arson?”

“I mean, dear heart, that I decided to cremate that loathsome lump of wood. I took him and his shoebox, carried them into the living room, and tossed him into the fireplace.”

Oscar pressed both hands to his chest. “There goes my comeback.”

Mitzi continued, “Then... I don’t know. His stupid beard seemed to explode... flames came shooting out of the fireplace. They hit the drapes and those caught fire... then the damn furniture started to go.” She shook her head angrily. “Now the whole shebang is ablaze.” Looking directly into the camera, she added, “If you’re out there watching, Oscar...” She gave him the finger.

Borneo raised his shaggy eyebrows high. “Hey, is she talking to you, Oscar?”

“I’m not in the mood for conversation just now.” Abandoning his club soda, he walked out into the night.

His daughter phoned a few minutes shy of midnight. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m way beyond worry, kid.”

“When I caught the report about Mom’s mansion on the news, I figured you’d assume that Screwy Santa was gone.”

“Certainly I assumed that. There was Mitzi. fatter than ever, hollering for all the world to hear that my poor hapless creation was the cause of the whole blinking conflagration.”

“It was a ringer, Dad.”

“Eh?”

“I dropped by to visit Mom this afternoon and when she went away to yell at Clarissa, I substituted my old Screwy Santa doll for your dummy,” explained Tish. “In a way, I may be responsible for that dreadful fire. The doll’s a lot more flammable than—”

“No, there was some parent flap at the time, but we proved beyond a doubt that the dolls were perfectly safe if—”

“I have your dummy here in my apartment.”

“You’ve really got Screwy?”

“Yes, he’s sitting on my bed right this minute,” she assured her father. “It’s lucky I went out there when I did and saved him before Mom got going on her plan to destroy the little guy. Why did you go and telephone her and make it crystal clear that you were in desperate need of him? That was dippy, since it inspired her to destroy him.”

“I didn’t call her as myself. But somehow she penetrated my—”

“That’s because, trust me, you do a terrible British voice. When do you need him?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I thought you weren’t doing the show until Friday.”

“Well, and keep this to yourself, kid, there’s a possibility they’ll devote a separate seg all to me.”

“That would be great.”

“So can I pick him up tomorrow?”

“Sure, come by around one and I’ll take you to lunch.”

“Can’t make lunch, because I have some people to see while I’m in the Apple. But I’ll pop in, give you a paternal hug, and grab Screwy Santa,” he said. “Thanks. You’re a perfect daughter.”

“Perfect for you, I guess. Bye.”

Everything worked out well for Oscar. He did, in fact, do a segment of his own, which ran nearly four minutes, on
Have a Good Day, USA!
And Vince Mxyzptlk was able to get him an impressive batch of other jobs. At the moment there’s also the possibility of a new kid show for Oscar and Screwy Santa on cable.

Oscar was able to leave his forlorn condo for a three-bedroom colonial in Brimstone, Connecticut, last month.

While he was packing, he came across the length of pipe he’d intended to use on Mitzi. He slapped it across the palm of his hand a few times, and, sighing, tossed it into a carton.

PASS THE PARCEL – Peter Lovesey

The roads were treacherous on Christmas Day and Andy and Gemma took longer than they expected to drive the twenty-five miles to Stowmarket. While Gemma concentrated on keeping the car from skidding, Andy complained about the party in prospect. “You and I must be crazy doing this. I mean, what are we putting our lives at risk for? Infantile games that your sister insists on playing simply because in her tiny mind that’s the only permissible way of celebrating. The food isn’t anything special. If Pauline produces those enormous cheese straws with red streaks like varicose veins, I’ll throw up. I promise you. All over the chocolate log.”

Gemma said, “We’re not going for the food.”

“The games?”

“The family.”

“Your brother Reg, you mean? The insufferable Reg? I can’t wait to applaud his latest stunt. What’s he planning for this year, would you say? A stripogram? Or a police raid? He’s a real bunch of laughs, is Reg.”

Gemma negotiated a sharp bend and said, “Will you shut up about Reg? There are others in my family.”

“Of course. There’s Geoff. He’ll be sitting in the most comfortable chair and speaking to nobody.”

“Give it a rest, will you?” Gemma said through her teeth.

“I’d like to. They’re showing
Apocalypse Now
on BBC2. I’d like to be giving it a rest in front of the telly with a large brandy in my fist.”

Andy’s grumbling may have been badly timed, but it was not unreasonable. Any fair-minded person would have viewed Christmas with this particular set of in-laws as an infliction. There were four in the current generation of Weavers, all in their thirties now. the sisters Gemma and Pauline and the brothers Reg and Geoff. Pauline, the hostess, eight years Gemma’s junior, was divorced. She would have been devastated if the family had spent Christmas anywhere else but in Chestnut Lodge, the mansion she had occupied with her former husband and kept as her share of the settlement. No one risked devastating Pauline. As the youngest, she demanded and received everybody’s cooperation.

“I could endure the food if it wasn’t for the games,” Andy started up again. “Why do we put up with them? Why not something intelligent instead of charades and—God help us—pass the parcel? I know, you’re going to tell me it’s a tradition in the family, but we don’t have to be lumbered with traditions forevermore just because sweet little Pauline likes playing the games she did when she was a kid. She’s thirty-one now, for Christ’s sake. Does she sleep with a teddy bear?”

When they reached Stowmarket and swung left, Andy decently dipped into his reserve of bonhomie. “They probably dread it as much as we do, poor sods. Let’s do our best to be convivial. You did bring the brandy?”

“On the backseat with the presents,” said Gemma.

Chestnut Lodge had been built about 1840 for a surgeon. Not much had been done to the exterior since. The stonework wanted cleaning and there were weeds growing through the gravel drive.

Someone had left a parcel the size of a shoebox on the doorstep. Andy picked it up and carried it in with their presents.

“So sorry, darling,” Gemma told Pauline. “The roads were like a rink in places. Are we the last?”

“No, Reg isn’t here yet.”

“Wanting to make the usual grand entrance?”

“Probably.”

“You’re wearing your pearls. And what a gorgeous dress.”

Pauline always wore something in pink or yellow with layers of net. She was in competition with the fairy on the tree, according to Andy.

She smiled her thanks for the compliment. “Not very practical for the time of year, but I couldn’t resist it. Let’s take your coats. And Happy Christmas.”

“First I’ll park these under the tree,” said Andy. “The brown paper one isn’t from us, by the way. We found it on your doorstep. Doesn’t feel heavy enough for booze, more’s the pity.”

“I do like surprises,” said Pauline.

“A secret admirer?” said Gemma.

“At my age?”

“Oh, come on, what does that say for me, pushing forty?”

“You’ve got your admirer.”

Gemma rolled her eyes upwards and said nothing.

“Come and say hello to Geoff.” Pauline cupped her hand to her mouth as she added, “Hasn’t had any work for three months, he told me.”

“Oh, no.”

Their accountant brother, short and fat, with half-glasses, greeted Gemma. “Merry Christmas” was likely to be the extent of his conversation for the day unless someone asked him about his garden.

Pauline brought in a tray of tea things.

Andy said, “Not for me, I’ll help myself to a brandy, if you don’t mind. Want one, Geoff?”

Geoff shook his head.

“Any trouble getting here?”

Geoff gave a shrug.

“Roads okay your way, then?”

Geoff thought about it and gave another shrug.

Pauline said. “It’s nearly four. Reg ought to be here. It’s not as if he has far to come. Geoff has a longer trip and he was here by three-thirty.”

“Knowing Reg of old, he could be planning one of his stunts,” said Andy. “Remember the year of the ghost in the bathroom, Pauline?”

“Don’t!” she said. “Will I ever forget it? It was so real, and he knew I was scared of living here alone.”

Between them, they recalled Reg’s party tricks in recent years: the time he arrived with his friend masquerading as an African bishop; the year the Queen’s voice came out of the cocktail cabinet; and the live turkey in Geoff’s car.

“You’ve got to give him full marks for trying,” said Andy. “It would be a dull old Christmas without him.”

“I’d rather have it dull,” said Pauline.

“Me, too,” said Gemma. “I may be his flesh and blood, but I don’t share his sense of humor.”

“Only because it could be your turn this time,” said Andy. “Poor old Geoff got it last year. The sight of that turkey pecking your hand when you opened the door, Geoff, I’ll never forget.

Geoff stared back without smiling.

Ten minutes later, Pauline said, “I’ve had the cocktail sausages warming for over an hour. They’ll be burnt to a cinder. And we haven’t even opened a single present.”

“Want me to phone him, see if he’s left?” Andy offered.

“Of course he’s left.” said Gemma. “He must have.”

Pauline started to say, “I hope nothing’s—”

Gemma said quickly, “He’s all right. He wants to keep us in suspense. We’re playing into his hands. I think we should get on with the party without him. Why don’t we open some presents?”

“I think we ought to wait for Reg.”