December Dread (The Murder-By-Month Mysteries) Page 20

  “Not unless you know who the Candy Cane Killer is.”

  I took the opening to describe my and Mrs. Berns’ online dating foray in River Grove. After that I described our experience in Orelock from beginning to end, including running into an unhinged Lynne in the hardware store and spotting Sharpie’s caramels at the gas station. Adam shook his head distantly while I talked. He also picked at his sandwich but never brought the food to his mouth. When I was finished, I waited for him to ask questions. He seemed lost in thought, oblivious to his surroundings.

  “They know he’s targeting women through online dating sites,” he finally said.

  “I figured that when the radio warned women to hold off on any online dating. Do you think the fact that both Greg and Craig used that same ‘two shakes of a sheep’s tail’ line means anything?”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “I think you should trust your instincts. Have you brought this to Briggs?”

  My cheeks flushed. “No. He’s not my biggest fan. He basically told me to stay out of his way or suffer the consequences.”

  “Sounds like Briggs,” Adam said sharply. He drew his hand into a fist and almost knocked his sandwich package to the ground. He caught it just before it fell. “He seems to be losing a lot of the info that I’ve been passing on to him, as well.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that the killer spent time living in River Grove.”

  My chest tightened. I thought of Tina, and what she’d said about Ginger the daycare monster and the mysterious young relative who visited her over the holidays. “How do you know?”

  “This case has been my life for three years.” He laughed, but it was a hollow bark. “I have resources and leads that the law won’t listen to. So, I stay out of Briggs’ way when I can, gather the story, and try to feed info to the FBI through Briggs’ partner.”

  I thought of Mr. Denny’s words. Don’t let a position fool you. Who better to misdirect a major investigation than the lead investigator? And who had a better excuse to be near every murder scene than the agent in charge? “Why don’t you write about that in one of your articles, how Briggs is putting up barriers to the case being solved?”

  He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “My sister loved Christmas,” he said. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Ironic, right, with us being Jewish? But it was her favorite time of the year. It’s one of the greatest fucking ironies of my life that I can’t be in this month without thinking of her murder.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  He seemed to collect himself after a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m too close to the case, right? So you asked why I didn’t put all that in an article. Here’s why. If I call out Briggs, if I air my suspicions that he’s not doing everything he can to solve this case, then I become the bad guy and I lose access to my sources. The way it is now, I have contact on the inside. If I push Briggs too hard, that’ll stop. But what Briggs doesn’t know is that this case is very near to being solved.

  The killer is gonna be caught.”

  He said the last part with such fierce assurance that I didn’t know if it was fantasy talking or if he had inside information. “You think he’s going to kill once more this month before they get him?”

  “Four deaths in December is his pattern. A leopard can’t change his spots. He’ll try, but if I’m right, he won’t succeed.”

  “What do you know?”

  He looked at me sadly. “Nothing I can talk about. But I can pass on your Craig/Greg research to Lee, Briggs’ partner. He’ll know if it’s something they can use. In the meanwhile, I suggest you spend the rest of the holidays appreciating your family. They’re all we have.”

  He turned so quickly that he almost knocked over a woman balancing two quarts of milk, a can of green beans, and a box of Stove Top stuffing in her arms. She dropped the stuffing, but he didn’t stop. I leaned to grab the red box and placed it back in her arms. That’s when I noticed Adam had left his cell phone next to his massacred sandwich. I snatched the phone and ran after him. I didn’t see him out front and ran around the corner of the building. He was entering a silver sedan parked next to the dumpster. I jogged and reached him just as he was unlocking the car door.

  “Adam! You forgot—”

  He whirled, his face a mask of such raw pain that it took my breath away. He rearranged his features and positioned himself between me and the car. “What is it?”

  “Your cell.” I handed the black phone to him, almost unable to look him in the eye. I’d never seen someone so vulnerable in my life.

  “Thanks,” he said gruffly, taking it.

  We stood awkwardly for a moment, and then I walked to my car without saying another word.

  Forty-four

  A beautiful, unexpected, fairy dust snowfall began as I drove home, so light that it was almost invisible except for the way it changed the shape of the air. The dancing sparkles would have provided the perfect Christmas cheer, except I felt terrible for Adam. I’d sensed his pain was far too deep and wide for a virtual stranger to touch, but I still felt like I should have made things better for him somehow.

  His grief was still with me as I pulled into the driveway, but it began to melt and give way to something warm and solid the minute I entered the door. The symphony of smells brought me immediately back to every good memory of my childhood: roasted turkey, garlicky mashed potatoes, cinnamon-laced pumpkin pie, warm, crusty bread fresh from the oven. My mom had started what she called the Two-day Feast tradition when I was four years old. She operated on the belief that one day wasn’t enough to celebrate God’s grace, so we ate like royalty on Christmas Eve and then again on Christmas Day, followed by opening presents. This was the first time I’d been part of the Feast in more than ten years.

  The smile my mom gave me was blinding when I entered.

  “Sorry about that errand,” I said. “Can I help with anything?”

  She rubbed her hands on her apron and returned to ricing the potatoes. “The best thing you can do for me is to stay out of my way.”

  I grinned because that too was part of the tradition. My mom liked to cook and she worked alone. I gave her a peck on the cheek, stole a crispy bite of succulent skin from the settling turkey before she could swat my hand, and went in to check on Mrs. Berns. I found her in front of the laptop.

  “Have you been in the kitchen lately?”

  “Nope,” she said as she tapped at the keyboard. “After a little polite hemming and hawing, your mom finally came out and told me that she liked to run the cooking show herself. I don’t know why she was hesitating. If there’s anything one woman should be comfortable telling another, it’s ‘get the hell out of my kitchen.’”

  I walked forward to see what was on her screen. “What are you working on?”

  She quickly minimized the view. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s impolite to read over someone’s shoulders?”

  I was waiting for the glare that was sure to follow, but she didn’t meet my eyes. This sent up an army of red flags. “You’re not looking at online porn in my mom’s house, are you?”

  She crossed her arms and turned to face me. “Nope. Nothing uglier than two strangers having sex. If God had meant for the world to see all that, He would have put our wedding tackle on our heads and our ears in our pants.”

  I put up a hand in an effort to stop the visual of that from settling into my brain, but she had been too quick. I winced when it hit home. “Then what are you doing?”

  “Maybe I’m Christmas shopping.”

  “On Christmas Day?”

  “Some good deals out there.”

  “You’re probably right.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, Mom sent me in here to tell you that our Day Two feast is ready, and she doesn’t mind if we start with the pie.”

  Mrs. Berns was out of her seat faster than a greased sneeze. I didn’t hesitate. I was in her seat in a single hot second. One click brought up the E-adore
site and Sharpie’s grinning face. A blinking heart in the upper right-hand corner indicated that Mrs. Berns’ account had an incoming message. I accessed it, and as the words of the message filled my eyes, the blood drained from me:

  Hey, spunky lover. Sunday was amazing. Can’t wait to see you again. With Christmas cheer, your Cyrano de Bergerac

  “You lie like a sack of shit,” Mrs. Berns accused from the doorway. “Your mom said we don’t eat for another half an hour. Why would you lie to a pie-deprived old lady like that? On Christmas? You want to go to hell?”

  I pushed myself to the side, revealing the computer screen. Sharpie’s photo stared at her from across the room. She immediately went into calculating mode.

  “Look, just because he travels for work doesn’t make him a serial killer. I made sure that red SUV was his, which proves he never left his hotel room the night the girl was murdered in Orelock. I’m telling you, I’m good at reading people, and old enough to know BS when I smell it. Sharpie is a good guy.”

  “You were the one pegging him as a killer after you talked to him in the coffee shop!”

  She considered this. “True. But then we camped outside his hotel room, and he never left. That’s when I got to thinking that I sure liked the sound of his voice back in Tammy’s Tavern. And the way he looked at me.”

  I crossed my arms. “You don’t know a thing about him.”

  “I know he’s part owner of a candy company in Chicago. He’s currently staying in River Grove as his base, selling candy and researching the feasibility of opening a factory in the area—low taxes for new businesses, cheap labor. I know he has no family except an ailing mom in Minneapolis and a sister in Boca Raton. If he can make a deal for a factory in Minnesota, he can settle down here and be closer to his mother.” She leaned forward as if to tell me a secret. “And I’ll tell you what, I know one more thing. That nose is not false advertising.”

  The last disturbing image she’d planted in my head was replaced by this one. “All I asked for was you to wait until the killer was caught.”

  “Pooh. I’m trusting my intuition and living my life. I’m old enough to have earned that.”

  She was right. But still. “I’m worried about you, that’s all. It’s a dangerous time to date strangers.”

  Mrs. Berns walked over and ruffled my hair. “It’s always a dangerous time to date strangers. A woman doesn’t want to make stupid decisions, but she can’t live in fear either. Trust me. Sharpie’s solid.”

  “Does he know you live in Battle Lake?”

  “Yup, and that I’m staying here for the holidays. He’s not afraid to travel for love. We have a date later tonight.”

  I didn’t like it. It may not be fair, but I’d firmly tagged Sharpie as a questionable guy. I didn’t want to admit it might have something to do with his appearance, so I didn’t and instead focused on the facts. He was from Chicago, the home of the original Candy Cane serial murders, and he’d traveled to at least two of the towns in Minnesota where a murder had taken place. I’d be willing to bet he’d spent his share of time in Wisconsin, as well. The most I could do was to keep a closer eye on Mrs. Berns and hope that Adam conveyed our leads to Briggs’ partner so he could check out Sharpie Trevino.

  “Fine, but could you do me a favor and not have any sleepovers? At least not until the killer is caught. I’d owe you one big-time.”

  Mrs. Berns scowled, muttered something about closing the barn door after the chicken has gotten out and the egg has gotten laid, but in the end, she agreed. I shut down the computer and began to set the table, using the treasured tablecloth my mother had received from her grandmother, my great-grandmother, on her wedding. It was well-used, almost transparent in spots, and represented holidays. When the tablecloth came out, good times were sure to follow. Mrs. Berns had bought and chilled some champagne, so she popped the cork and served us each a glass. It wasn’t long until we were giggling, lugging platters loaded with food from the kitchen to the dining room.

  The meal was spectacular. I was glad I’d spent all the years stretching out my stomach so I didn’t have to pass on thirds. The turkey was so moist that it melted, and mom’s stuffing was made from scratch, the perfectly seasoned, savory comfort food. Butter melted off the fresh bread, filling the chewy cracks and running down my arm. The creamed peas were the texture of mush and so delicious that I wanted to roll in them. We were so busy eating that we gave up talking until my mom remembered that she’d forgotten to say grace.

  “On Christmas!” she had a hand to her cheek, her expression shocked. “Can you believe it? I have so much to be grateful for this year and I didn’t even bother to thank our Lord.”

  Mrs. Berns raised her champagne glass. “Thanks, Lord.” She drained her glass and took another scoop of dressing.

  My mom’s smile was momentarily strained. She crossed herself and clasped her hands together. “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. I would like to thank you for the food, the company, my wonderful daughter, and for taking good care of my husband in heaven. I miss him every day.”

  I’d closed my eyes out of habit at the start of the prayer, but they flew open at these words. My mother’s face was serene. Had she really just referred to my dad, and even said she missed him? What a strange thought. I’d spent so much energy pushing down any memory of him that I couldn’t imagine choosing to think about him regularly. I felt a click inside of me, and then a slow swelling of something I couldn’t identify. I spoke quickly to distract myself. “Yes, thank you for the food and the company. I hope that everyone I love will stay safe and make good choices.” I stared pointedly at Mrs. Berns. She stopped refilling her champagne glass.

  “And I hope that everyone I love will grow up and mind their own beeswax. Amen.” She resumed pouring.

  Mom stared from one to the other of us, confused, and decided to return to her food. Mrs. Berns and I did the same. Eventually tryptophan, the great sedater, turned the blood in our veins to a hot, slow stew. We worked together to clean up after dinner and once all the leftovers were packed and a massive pot of turkey stock was simmering on the stove, we retreated to the living room to open presents. Mom had not had time to set up a tree, but the windows were festooned with twinkle lights. The soft snow outside had picked up its pace. Delicate flurries blanketed the world in white. Mom put on a Bing Crosby Christmas CD before joining us on the couch and chairs.

  My mom and Mrs. Berns opened their presents from me first, at my insistence. My mom loved the quilt and dishes I’d bought her. Mrs. Berns was surprised and then beaming as brightly as a lighthouse when she unwrapped the fedora that I’d found for her at a vintage clothing store in Willmar. She adjusted the jaunty feather in its brim and dropped it onto her head. The hat fit perfectly and made her look as cool as a cat.

  “These are for you two,” Mrs. Berns said, handing my mom and me each a delicately wrapped box. My mom opened hers first. Inside was a cameo brooch, a white silhouette against coral-colored background and wreathed in ornate gold. My mom gasped.

  “It was my mother’s,” Mrs. Berns said.

  My mom immediately handed it back. “I can’t possibly take this.”

  “It’s an honor to give it,” Mrs. Berns said simply. “You raised one of my best friends in this world, and I’d like to give you a little something to show you how important that is to me.”

  My eyes grew surprisingly hot. My mom didn’t bother to stop the tears flowing down her face. She pinned the brooch to her collar and looked at me with deep love.

  “You’re next,” Mrs. Berns said.

  I pulled the ribbon off my package. A hard black stone sat nestled in the bottom of the box. I pulled it out, and it had a greasy feel. “Was this your grandfather’s?” I asked.

  “Nope,” she said, shaking her head confidently. “That’s a lump of coal. Didn’t want things getting too sentimental. Better luck next year!”

  I smiled broa
dly and placed the top back on the box. I loved her more for giving me the coal than even giving my mom the brooch. “Thank you.”

  “You two next,” my mom said. She handed Mrs. Berns and me each a red rectangular box, the kind that JC Penney sweaters usually come in. We both unwrapped ours at the same time. Mine held a hand-knit scarf created from the softest emerald-toned cashmere I’d ever felt. I held it to my cheek and almost purred. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She beamed proudly.

  Mrs. Berns’ box also held a scarf, though hers was done in the bright oranges that she preferred. They were both absolutely lovely. Next, Mom gave Tiger Pop a sock full of catnip and Luna a peanut-butter flavored rawhide chew bone tied with a red bow. Everyone was happy, the room itself a box of contentment wrapped in a red ribbon.

  Mrs. Berns chose that moment to leave for her date with Sharpie. I recognized that the warm glow on her face wasn’t just from time spent with me and Mom. She had a genuine crush on the man, and I had a hunch that she’d been spending more time with him than at the nursing home the last two days.

  “You remember the wrist lock?” I asked her, referring to the self-defense move we’d covered on our first day of class.

  “I do, but I favor the nut-splat, followed by the eyeball popper and then the throat punch. Don’t worry, ninny. I’m a smart woman.” She patted my head. “I’ll be back by 1:00, deal?”

  “Deal.” I thought I caught her and Mom exchanging a “she worries too much” face, and I couldn’t believe it. As far as I was concerned, Minnesota women were currently operating in a war zone. There was no such thing as worrying too much. I walked to the bay window to watch Mrs. Berns drive away in my car, which doubled the anxiety I felt.

  “C’mon, Mira,” my mom said, motioning me away from the window. “Let’s play cribbage.”

  We’d played so many games back in high school that we’d needed to replace the pegs several times. It was our together time, when we’d talk about her day and mine. Our games had dropped off after Dad’s accident, by my choice, I imagine, but they still held a warm memory. I allowed myself to be distracted as she retrieved the glossy, hand-polished wooden game board from the closet. It was over this board that I’d told her all the secrets girls tell their moms until they turn fourteen or so and decide their mothers could never understand a teenager’s complicated life. I smiled as I ran my hand over the smooth surface. “When was the last time you played?”