The Night Before Christmas, page 2
Laurel dropped the card on the scarred pine table as a cold, terrible fear crept like a ghostly finger over her spine. Oh, God. What did this mean? No one but Gertie May knew about Steve’s death.... She’d been so careful. A wave of panic mounted in her breast and she pressed her hand to her heart in a feeble attempt to calm herself.
“Laurel, what is it? A card from a secret admirer?”
Perspiration beaded on her forehead as she struggled to squeeze words past the paralyzing tightness in her throat. “N-not exactly an admirer.” Laurel cast a meaningful glance in Dorie’s direction, worried that her small daughter might pick up on the fear that had taken hold of her heart. “Tell me what you think, Gertie May.”
“Where’s the secret mirror?” Dorie demanded as the elderly woman retrieved the card.
Gertie May’s pale, freckled fingers trembled. “Oh, dear.”
“I want to see the secret mirror in the angel, Gertie May.”
“Not now, Dorie-girl. Eat your dinner.”
Laurel watched as Gertie May promptly crumpled up the offending card and marched it over to the trash container under the sink. The cabinet door rattled alarmingly against the childproof latch when she slammed it closed.
“Nonsense. The foolishness of some people,” Gertie May muttered, returning to the table. “Don’t give it another thought, Laurel.”
Laurel felt coils of tension tighten in her shoulders. Not think about it? Someone knew her secret. Laurel pushed her plate away. She was suddenly in no mood to eat.
The card’s threatening message preyed on her mind as she kissed Dorie good-night, slipped on her coat and walked the three blocks to the Crow’s Nest. The card had been hand-delivered to her door. Someone in Serenity Cove knew about Steve’s murder...knew that she had been accused of the crime.
Laurel felt a hot flush of shame, followed by a surge of anger. She glanced back uneasily over her shoulder. Was someone watching her now? What could they possibly hope to gain by tormenting her like this?
Snow crunched beneath her boots as she moved closer to the curb, grateful for the Christmas lights that illuminated the darkened shop doorways with fairy rings. Safe. But for how long?
* * *
THE CROW’S NEST was unusually empty for a Saturday night. The regulars were snug at home drinking eggnog, wrapping presents and planning last-minute shopping strategy. Home, where she should be, making sure Dorie was safe in bed.
Laurel anxiously scanned the patrons; there were only two unfamiliar faces in the smoky bar. And she was sure she’d never seen either of them in her hometown of Nelson. Finally, she allowed herself to relax.
As she approached the bar around ten, Laurel came face-to-face with Victor Romanowski’s dark, flat features. Victor reminded her of a bulldog; he was all chest and stubby legs. She gave him a polite smile and stepped past him. He smelled of musk and new leather. “A Rusty Nail and a Zombie, please, Simon.”
Laurel felt a heavy hand settle on the small of her back. Great. Just what she needed. With a faint shake of her head, she expertly moved out of the developer’s range.
Undeterred, Victor gave her a broad-lipped smile and patted a vacant bar stool. Even his fingers were short and stubby. “Take a load off, Ms. Bishop. Maybe it’s about time we got personally acquainted—aired our differences. Who knows, maybe we can reach some sort of mutual understanding?”
The double meaning in his tone grated on her nerves, and Laurel didn’t like the way his eyelids lowered to shade his black eyes as they conducted a lecherous perusal of her body. She slowly counted to five under her breath and added more cocktail napkins to her tray. She hated having to be friendly to jerks like this. “Sorry, Mr. Romanowski. I’m working now and I’ve already taken my break. There’s a time for work...” She paused for effect, smiling ever so sweetly. “And a time for civic pursuits. Right now, my time is money.”
“Is that so?” Victor removed his wallet from his back pocket and opened it to her view, obviously of the opinion that she would be impressed by the thick layers of green, red and brown bills. “Well, I got all the money a pretty thing like you could want.” He extracted a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. “Would this cover five minutes’ worth of conversation?”
Laurel flicked her eyes over him, unable to conceal her contempt. Did he really think he could buy her off? “It wouldn’t cover five-tenths of a second.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to order something. How about Sex-on-the-Beach?”
She’d rather put ice in his pants—the arrogant pig. She gave him a smile chilly enough to freeze South Africa. “Simon will be happy to take your drink order.”
The ice cubes tinkled against the glasses in a chorus of merry laughter as she headed back to her tables. What rotten luck. The last two hours would feel like an eternity if she had to ignore Victor every time she placed an order.
Fortunately, within a few minutes, Victor was joined by a pink-faced man wearing a heavy jean jacket. Laurel thought she recognized him from the last council meeting as being one of Victor’s general contractors. From the way their heads were bent together in deep conversation, she imagined they were planning their strategy for the January council meeting. Laurel grinned. She and Gertie May were going to stop them in their tractor tracks.
The Crow’s Nest closed at midnight and Simon saw Laurel home. Simon had six grown daughters and he didn’t like the idea of his waitresses walking home alone at night—even if Serenity Cove was a safe place to live.
As Laurel stepped onto the veranda at Harris House, her warm breath misted in the cold, sharp air and her heart stilled. Oh, God, not again. Fear settled like a heavy stone in her stomach. Tucked inside the doorframe was another buff-colored envelope with her name clearly visible in thick, black letters.
Laurel squeezed the envelope between her mittened fingers like it was a poisonous snake. After fumbling with the house keys, she finally got the front door open. Once inside, she slid the dead bolt into place and stood for a moment peering through the diamond-shaped sidelight. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. Was someone out there watching her? But her own frightened image was all she could see reflected in the window glass.
Dorie.
Laurel kicked off her boots, tossed her mittens onto a table beside a pair of pruners and hurried down the basement stairs to the suite she shared with her daughter.
Gertie May saved the second-floor bedrooms with views overlooking the cove for guests, but Laurel much preferred the cozy quarters of the B and B’s basement over the spacious turn-of-the-century home she’d shared with Steve. She’d never imagined she could be this happy again. A hydrangea-flowered partition separated one end of the suite into two semiprivate sleeping cubicles. There was also a tiny bath squeezed next to the laundry room. The other half of the basement was used as storage.
Laurel rounded the partition. A halo of light from Dorie’s night-light illuminated the bed, chasing her darkest fears away. Dorie was sound asleep in bed, surrounded by an army of stuffed playmates. Thank God! Laurel adjusted a straying blanket, then quietly moved to her own cubicle.
Shrugging out of her coat, she sank onto the bed, the buff-colored envelope carefully balanced in the trembling palms of her hands. Should she open it? Maybe she should just throw it away. It couldn’t harm her—or Dorie—if she didn’t look at it.
But that would be like running away. And she was tired of running. Laurel opened the envelope.
Inside she found another Renaissance angel on the card’s front, though in a different pose. Was there supposed to be some metaphoric meaning in that? The gold-embossed letters on the inside of the card bore the generic message “Happy Holidays And Best Wishes For The Coming New Year.” To which the same dark, malevolent pen had added, History Can Repeat Itself.
Laurel bit down so hard on her lower lip she tasted blood. What was that supposed to mean?
Nothing, she finally decided. Someone was obviously trying to frighten her—and doing a very good job of it—but she’d be damned if she’d give someone that power over her. She refused to be sucked into a life governed by fear again.
Strengthened by her decision, Laurel returned to the main floor and hung her coat in the front hall closet. Then she went upstairs to ensure that a light had been left burning in the hallway for the guests.
A strip of light was visible beneath Gertie May’s door. She paused in the hallway, uncertain. It wasn’t like Gertie May to fall asleep with her bedside light on. Was she feeling ill? Laurel tapped softly on the door. “Gertie May?” she whispered.
There was no answer. Laurel eased the door open and looked into the room. The bed was neatly made. Laurel felt a ripple of apprehension. The clock on the bedside table read 1:15 a.m. Where was Gertie May? A light was on in the adjoining en suite and she crossed the room in quick steps, worried that her friend had slipped in the bathtub or on the tile floor.
The bathroom was empty, but Laurel noticed signs of use. The clothes Gertie May had worn earlier lay draped across the storage cupboard under the window. Her flannel men’s pajamas and chenille robe were missing from the hook on the bathroom door.
Gertie May was dressed for bed. She had to be somewhere in the house. Maybe chatting with one of the guests? Quietly, Laurel returned to the hallway and listened for sounds of conversation coming from one of the two occupied guest bedrooms. But all she could hear were the normal sounds of sleep and the rustle of bed coverings. The unreserved guest bedroom at the front was still empty.
Laurel returned to the main floor, racking her brain for logical explanations. Had she somehow missed Gertie May? She remembered that a light had been left on in the living room, but she decided to try the dining room first, noting that the place settings for breakfast had already been laid on the mahogany table.
“Gertie May?” Laurel called softly as she entered the kitchen again. The sound of her hopeful voice echoed in the room. No one answered.
Goose bumps rose along her arms and stole over her shoulder blades as Laurel experienced a disturbing sensation of déjà vu. Terror cut through her heart like a sharp knife. She didn’t want to go to the living room. That’s where she’d found Steve that horrible morning....
Rubbing her arms to combat the goose bumps, Laurel began a methodical check of the remainder of the rooms on the main floor: the alcove Gertie May used for an office; the front hall closet; a guest bath; and, finally, the living room.
Laurel took a deep, steadying breath before she went in. The Christmas tree lights were off, giving the tree an eerie cast—a look of falseness much like viewing the layers of makeup on a theatrical performer’s face in daylight. Her gaze rested on the painted face of the porcelain angel that was slightly askew on her treetop perch. The cupid’s-bow lips no longer seemed to sing for joy, but to smirk with the knowledge of a secret.
A cold, deadly secret.
“Please, God, don’t let me find her body....” she whispered hoarsely, forcing her gaze downward to the floor. She saw nothing but the red-and-black arabesque patterns repeated in the Persian carpet. Then her eyes locked on the concealing bulk of the divan. This couldn’t be happening—again.
She skittered across the room, her body quivering with near hysteria. “Calm down, Laurel. Gertie May’s okay.”
So why was she looking behind the sofa? And why was she talking to herself? Laurel braced her hands on the sofa back, steeling herself for the worst as she looked down at a gray...furry dust ball.
“Oh, God!” Laurel collapsed onto the sofa and massaged her temples with trembling fingers.
Gertie May wouldn’t leave Dorie alone. It wasn’t like her, especially with strangers in the house. But even if Gertie May had gone out, where would she go dressed in pajamas and robe, in the middle of winter?
Laurel returned to the front hall closet and grew more perplexed. Gertie May’s winter boots and beret were in the back of the closet, but Gertie May’s coat and Laurel’s rain boots were missing. She couldn’t have gone far. Had there been an emergency? Maybe Frederick had had a problem with Anna, but Laurel couldn’t find an explanatory note anywhere.
Laurel struggled into her coat and boots and grabbed her mittens. The pruners caught her eye and she placed them up high out of Dorie’s reach. Then she took a heavy-duty flashlight from the closet. She’d have a look around the outside of the house first, then see if there were any lights on at the Aameses’.
The cold air stung her cheeks and seeped into her lungs as she made a slow tour of the front and back yards. Shining the light into the shadows of the snow-shrouded shrubbery skirting the house’s stone foundation, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. No fresh tracks in the snow. Gertie May hadn’t slipped on a patch of ice while taking out the garbage. The wooden cage that kept raccoons and coyotes from scavenging the garbage cans was undisturbed.
An icy blast of wind coming in from the water swirled under her coat, numbing her thighs. Laurel shivered and kept moving, making a diagonal set of tracks across the front lawn. As she rounded the end of Frederick’s laurel hedge, the sight of the Aameses’ darkened house brought her to a halt. Could she be mistaken? Laurel experienced a tremor of misgiving that she immediately tried to counteract with a dose of common sense. Frederick and Gertie May were probably having a cup of tea in the kitchen. She followed Frederick’s immaculately swept brick walk to the back of the craftsman-style home. But the rear facade was also dark, the windowpanes gleaming like mirrors in the moonlight.
Suddenly, Laurel felt very much alone and very much afraid. What was she supposed to do now? And where was Gertie May?
* * *
IAN HAD NEVER thought of himself as a sentimental man, but when the cab approached the bend in the road, he felt spurred into spontaneity. He tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. “Pull over here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“Are you certain, sir?” The cabbie’s tone carried an edge of wariness. Tall evergreens bordering both sides of the road turned the bend into a tunnel of darkness. A good spot for an ambush at two o’clock in the morning.
Ian sensed the man’s uneasiness, and relented. “The town begins just ‘round the bend. You can let me off there. Careful, it’s a blind curve. It might be icy.” The headlights of the cab swerved sharply to the right and Ian leaned forward in anticipation. He’d always fancied the way the angle of this particular bend situated at the north end of town made Serenity Cove suddenly appear as if out of nowhere—as though you were encountering something unexpected and special. Serendipitous.
And there it was, quaint as ever in its Christmas finery of jeweled lights and snow-dusted rooftops with the light standards wrapped like candy canes. It still looks the same, he thought at first glance, oddly pleased.
The cab pulled over in front of Jorgen’s Pharmacy. Ian paid his fare and climbed onto the wooden sidewalk, slinging his bulky duffel bag over his shoulder. The frigid air was refreshing, but hard on someone who had no hat or gloves. Aunt Gem’s was only two blocks away. He’d be okay.
He walked with long, quick strides, marveling at how little Serenity Cove had changed in the four years since his last visit. Indeed, since his childhood. The two-block village constructed in a mix of architectural styles supplied the basics of civilized life: a market, a take-out pizza joint, a pub, a bakery/café, a coin-operated laundry, a pharmacy, a post office and a hardware store.
At the end of the street he paused to fill his soul with the silvery dance of the moonlight on the waters of the Burrard Inlet against a shadowy backdrop of mountains on the opposite shore. But it was too cold to linger; Ian turned down his aunt’s front walk.
The house hadn’t changed, either. The same parchment shingles, creamy white trim and perky orange door. As always, the long railings of the front steps seemed like white, soft arms flung wide in an eternal gesture of welcome. Looking up, his eyes followed the vertical lines of the house to the dormer window nestled under the gabled roof. The room where he always stayed. The window was dark, but pools of light glowed from the downstairs windows. It was almost as though “Aunt Gem” had known his flight out of the concrete jungle of Los Angeles would be delayed.
Ian smiled, enjoying a rare moment of complete happiness. He could almost smell his aunt’s apple cider simmering on the stove. And just thinking about her chocolate fudge made his mouth water.
Then Ian’s thoughts were lost to him completely as something landed with great force on the right side of his skull.
Chapter Two
“Oh, my God,” Laurel whispered in dismay, shining her flashlight over the prostrate form of the man lying in the snow at her feet. “What have I done?” What she had thought was Gertie May’s body thrown over the man’s shoulder was, in fact, a large, overstuffed duffel bag!
She shone the light in the man’s suntanned face. She didn’t recognize him. His features were lax. He was out completely. But for how long?
Laurel had only a few seconds to recover from the shock of committing the first violent act in her life. It was too much of a coincidence that a stranger would be lurking around the outside of Harris House on the same night Gertie May had disappeared. She pulled off her mittens with her teeth, her heart galloping at a frenzied pace, as she knelt down and felt the man’s pockets with shaking, tentative fingers. Where was his wallet? What if he came to before she could get his ID and phone the police?
He’d fallen on his left side. No wallet shape jutted out from his jean-clad buttocks. She unzipped his brown leather jacket and slipped her hand into the cozy haven of warmth against his chest. The leather had a fine, crackled patina like the glaze on old china. As her fingers skimmed over the lining of the jacket, searching for a breast pocket, she noticed he wore a lightweight denim shirt. He must be freezing. There! She felt something...the corner of his wallet.
Laurel pulled, hearing the wrench of fabric as the pocket tore. A second later the man moved in a sudden twisting motion. The next thing she knew, he had flipped her onto her back and was sitting astride her, pinning her arms above her head in a viselike grip with one hand, while his other hand smothered her screams.
