Wrapped Up in Crosswords (12 page)

Lever wasn't convinced that lingerie was the way to go for either his wife or the wife of his ex-partner, but he opted to indulge Jones. He crushed his cigarette out on the pavement outside the door, coughed twice, and said, “Whatever.”

The salesclerk was in her mid-twenties, strikingly beautiful with jet-black hair and a shapely figure. She was also nearly as tall as Abe, which made her two inches taller than Al. She made no attempt to conceal the fact that she not only remembered Abe Jones from last Christmas, but also found him to be a very,
very
attractive man.

“If you need any of these items modeled, honey,” she cooed, “just let me know. We're here to please.”

Abe gave her one of his glowing smiles. “Why, thank you?…”

“Tracy.”

“Tracy. That's right. How could I forget? We're just doing a little late shopping. We'll let you know if we need help.”

Al's face had become bright red by this point; he tried to mask it by turning to a rack of thong panties and pretending to search for the correct size. After Tracy had moved off, he said, “I don't know, Abe, I don't think skivvies are the right choice for either Helen or Belle.”

“Skivvies?” Jones pulled a filmy piece of black nylon decorated with silver beads from the rack. “Al, these are not skivvies. Boxer shorts are skivvies, not these … And think about it; your wife would love something sexy and alluring like this. What were you planning on getting her anyway? And please don't tell me a toaster oven.”

Lever looked at him incredulously. “What do you take me for?… No. I thought I'd go out to the garden shop.”

“What? A gardenia tree, maybe? Or a camellia? It's not bad, but not great either. We can do better.”

“No, not a plant, she wanted some of those pads you put on your knees when you're pulling weeds—the green plastic ones with Velcro straps?”

Jones sighed and placed his arm over Lever's shoulder. “Look, Al, first off, she can't even use anything like that until May or June. What's she supposed to do? Stare at them yearningly and wait for the break of spring when she can at long last get down on her knees and pull some weeds out of the rhubarb patch? And second, you need to get much more personal with the women in your life. That's what they want. Here.” He pulled a midnight-blue bra, panty, and garter set from the rack to his right. “What about these? Your wife will be all over you.” He turned back to the rack. “Wait, hold on, they have them in red satin. Now, that's perfect for Christmas. What size is she?”

“I don't know … medium, I guess … maybe large?”

Abe rolled his eyes. “Al, Al, Al … You've got to come up with a
number,
here, Al. Medium or large doesn't cut it. Okay, from looking at Helen, I'm going to guess she wears a size fourteen dress. Tracy can help translate that into the correct bra measurement. Besides, if your selection doesn't fit she can always exchange it later. It's the thought that counts.”

“And what thought is that?”

“Romance, Al, romance.”

“I got her an electric chain saw two years back. She
loved
it.”

Abe shook his head. “I'll just bet she did.”

“Yeah, she doesn't have the wrist action necessary to turn over a gas model.”

“I'm not even going to respond to that comment.”

Lever studied the lace-edged red ensemble for what seemed like fifteen minutes. “Okay …” he finally sighed, “what the heck. Might as well live dangerously. But I've got to come up with something else for Belle. Rosco would string me up if I gave her an item like that.”

“No pun intended?” Abe held up a pair of string panties dotted with tiny pearls and chuckled. “I think maybe I'm in the wrong section for Sara, too.” He removed another pair of thong panties from a plastic hanger that weighed twice as much as the garment itself. “Not really Mrs. Briephs's color, are they? I wonder if they come in mauve or lavender?”

Lever laughed. “No, but it would be worth every penny just to see the look on her face when she opens the box.”

“I value my life more than that, my friend.”

“You could claim you thought it was a slingshot.”

“Don't count on her believing that tale. She's as savvy as they come.”

Abe went on to select a dozen sheer camisoles and panties for the women on his list. He then took them to Tracy at the sales counter.

“Well, someone's a lucky girl,” she said when she saw the pile of satin, lace, and rhinestone-studded silk.

Abe cleared his throat. “Right … If you could just hold onto those for a minute, we're going to take a look at your body lotions.”

“I recommend the Passion Fruit Massage,” Tracy said as she gave Abe a slow wink. “It's one of my favorites. A real turn on, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

After examining the selection of lotions, Al still wasn't convinced it was the right gift for Belle. But the product line had stimulated his imagination:
Passion Fruit, Five Berry, Tropical Milk, Wheat Germ, Avocado, Bananas and Cream.
“I think I have the perfect gift for Belle,” he finally declared. “But I can't get it here.”

The two men returned to the sales counter. Al made his purchase for his wife, but as Tracy wrapped the package, he fixed Abe with a level and anxious stare: “If this doesn't work, Jones, I'm holding your personally responsible.”

“I'm opening a whole new world for you, Al.”

“We'll see …”

“If Helen's not eating out of your hand Christmas morning, you can always promise her an electric drill to match that chain saw. That DeWalt yellow is very striking.

“She already has one. Cordless.”

“What a guy.” Abe added his gift for Sara to his other items and said, “I guess that'll be it, Tracy.”

“Yes, sir. But I believe you made a slight error with the lingerie you selected.”

“Really? How so?”

“They're not all the same size. Some are extra-small, some are twelves, and some are—”

“Ah, yeah, right. Um … I have a lot of nieces.”

“Nieces? How old are they?”

“… And a few aunts.”

“Oh, that's right. I remember from last year. Yours is a very large family … of women.”

As Al and Abe prepared to exit Intimate Proposals, Martha was just starting out on her gift-buying spree—although “spree” was not the word she would have used to describe the occasion. Unwillingness to enter into the spirit of the season made her drag her feet in a manner that was decidedly inconsistent with her normal efficiency.
Bah, humbug,
she grumbled to herself.
Who cares about this Secret Santa stuff anyway? The holiday's for kids, isn't it? So let's just wrap the tots' gifts and call it a day. I don't need a fancy party at Sara's house. And I don't need to be buying
—
or making
—
something for a person I hardly know. I mean, of all the weird luck! Why couldn't I have drawn Belle for my Secret Santa? Or Rosco or Bartholomew or even Abe or Al? Why Stanley Hatch? We're no more than passing acquaintances … and what do you choose for a widower? Joke gifts are out, right?

But here was Martha's true dilemma. She did know Stanley. Not only was he a sometime member of the “canine corps,” he'd also been a daily customer at Lawson's since his wife's death. He was a good and decent guy—who, unfortunately, was currently available, which only made matters worse. Cowardice, especially cowardice in dealing with male customers, was not an emotion Martha relished.

“Darn!” she muttered aloud. “Darn!” For the fourth time in as many minutes, she considered avoiding the entire event. But instead, she plodded along and finally drifted into the sporting goods shop. But there, everything looked either too impersonal or just the opposite.
I can't get him a hat,
she told herself,
or gloves or a fleece scarf. Who doesn't own plenty of warm gear like that in New England?
She picked up and rejected a mini-flashlight, a canteen, a set of camping dinnerware, a book with detailed maps of local hikes, and a utensil that served as spoon, fork, and knife all together.
He may not even like camping,
she decided.
I know I don't. And you can just forget about climbing along any mountain trail.

She walked grimly back to the street, turned the corner, and started again.
The antique shop? The new cooking emporium? A gift from the pet store to share with Ace?
Then she spotted Fennimore's Bookshop, and a light bulb went off in her head.

I
T
was three minutes after Martha had vanished into the bookshop's wooden stacks that Al Lever's beeper buzzed him. He handed Abe the gilded bag that contained Helen's present, and the paper sack that contained Belle's gift, then punched numbers into his cell phone.

“Lever. What's up?” he stated, although anyone at NPD would have recognized Al's voice before he reached the first “e.”

“The Staties just picked up two of their guys, Al,” the voice reported.

“Only two?”

“What they said.”

“Meaning one's still out there.”

“Affirmative. The two clowns aren't talking either, so there's no telling where the third's got himself to.”

“Which one's still loose?”

“Scraggs, the faa … er, heavyset one. The Staties also said they'd reclaimed
most
of the stolen weapons.”

“Most
?”

“That's a direct quote. No additional information supplied. Men of few words, those Staties.”

Lever signed off and looked at Abe. “We've still got one armed Santa on the loose.”

“A one-armed Santa? Must be tough handling those eight reindeer.”

“You slay me, Abe.”

“Don't go there, Al. You want a one-armed Santa and a
sleigh,
you got it.”

“I'll stick with ‘slay.' Which may be my fate when Helen gets a load of the gift you've talked me into.”

Fourteen

W
HITE
Caps was decorated for the season as it always had been. What had been considered festive in Sara's parents' day—and probably her grandparents' and great grandparents' before them—she deemed appropriate now. Christmas, or indeed any holiday, she felt should be accorded the tradition it deserved. Thus, the ten-foot-tall balsam fir in the sitting room, the swags of white pine bedecking the main stairs, the cedar garlands draping each fireplace mantle, the
cache pots
of fragrant paper-white narcissus dotting every polished mahogany tabletop. Sara's conservatory was a busy place in the weeks leading up to this important event—just as it had been in years gone by.

“Welcome, welcome,” she beamed as her guests arrived—another longstanding custom being that the mistress of the house be the first to greet her guests rather than have the door opened by Emma, the parlor maid who'd been in Sara's employ for more than forty years.

“We have refreshments set out in both the sitting room and dining room; the children's gifts to be wrapped are arranged there, as well. There were so many presents that Emma and I chose to divide them up; otherwise the task of affixing paper and ribbon to each and every item seemed rather daunting. But I'm asking that our own Secret Santa gifts be placed on the sideboard in the dining room. We can open our offerings to one another following our light collation.” Sara gave Belle an almost imperceptible wink, while Al, who'd just arrived with Helen, said:

“And what's your idea of a light collation,' Mrs. B.?” Al was the only person who got away with calling Sara “Mrs. B.” just as she was the only human on earth who was permitted to refer to him as “Albert.”

“Emma and I decided upon a smoked turkey breast to accompany the traditional oyster stew, Albert dear. Deviled eggs for Belle, of course, and a caviar mousse, which also will serve as an
hors d'oeuvre.
Then a Welsh rarebit, because my father always insisted upon it, an escallop of leeks and potatoes, a hot vegetable terrine, a green salad … oh, and a mincemeat pie with hard sauce for dessert. One simply cannot celebrate Christmas without hard sauce!”

“That doesn't sound like a ‘light' anything, Mrs. B—especially a sauce made almost entirely of butter. I'm trying to watch my weight, you know.” Al patted his stomach, a gesture that made Abe Jones roll his eyes.

“You're lovely just the way you are, Albert,” was Sara's lofty reply.

Rosco mouthed the word
lovely
as Al gave him a superior nod. A short moment later, Bartholomew arrived, and on his heels Martha and Stanley, who entered the foyer in an unexpected and nervous hush.

“Martha, my dear!!” Sara said, giving her an expansive hug. “I'm so glad you could make it! Your friends need you every bit as much as your niece does. Oh, and here's your gift to add to the Secret Santa horde; and yours, too, Stan and Bartholomew. It looks very much like an article of gentleman's hosiery might be hiding in that box you're bearing. Well, let's get to the business at hand, and then we can reward ourselves with a meal and our gift exchange. There's eggnog for those who wish it, or mulled cider for those among us who feel an obligation to watch their calories. I do not refer to you, of course, Albert.”

This year, it was Abe who proved the most deft at wrapping the gathered toys. Not only was he speedier than the others, he was also a whiz at creating complicated, curling, and multi-layered bows.

“Either you're getting domesticated, Abe,” Al observed, “or you've got far too much time to play around with sharp instruments.”

“Can't a guy have a ‘soft' side, Al?” Abe rejoined while Helen observed a pithy:

“Appreciating the prettier things in life wouldn't kill you, Al.”

“That's just what I was telling your hubby just this morning, Helen. Women like to see a guy's sensitive side every now and then.”