Let There Be Suspects (11 page)

We played this game for awhile, the lights and I. The lights won. When I left the Victorian, they were still burning brightly through the upstairs window.

 
Unless I wanted to drive to one of the strip malls on the outskirts of town, my shopping choices were limited. I needed more wrapping paper, which I could probably find at one of the local pharmacies. I needed a gift for Ginger, which was easier than it sounds since nothing I bought, ranging from a full-length chinchilla coat to a Chia pet, would please her anyway. I decided the pharmacy would suffice for that purchase, as well.

The closest one to the Victorian was a chain store, with nine long aisles of cosmetics, school supplies, and groceries and two short aisles devoted to pharmaceuticals. The staff gives out maps at the door on the long shot a customer might need antacids or antihistamines.

The crowd was thick, but I squeezed my way in and dove for one of the last rolls of Christmas paper, a dull silver sprinkled with demented-looking Santas. I held it against me, arms wrapped tightly around it, in case the desperate-looking mother with two toddlers in a shopping cart made a grab for it. She grabbed the last roll instead, a bright purple foil with yellow and orange candy canes and glared at me.

Next I was faced with finding something for Ginger. After squeezing my way through the aisles I was trying to decide between a Christmas CD of the Vienna Boys Choir—the nice choice—or a DVD of
Psycho
—the naughty choice—when somebody cleared her throat behind me.

I turned to see Mabyn Booth with Shirley riding on her hip.

“Well . . .” I said. “Umm . . . Merry Christmas.” I was going to brazen this one out—I just wasn’t sure how. I knew I would not mention the punch bowl.

“You waited until the last minute, too, didn’t you?”

“There’s always something I need on Christmas Eve. What are you here for?”

“Shirley’s had a little cold. I’m picking up a prescription.” She smiled. “Plus tape, three more Christmas cards, ribbon, a small present for the little girl down the street because Shirley pulled her hair yesterday, and hard liquor. Oh, if they really had it, to help me get through Fern’s holiday dinner tonight.”

Shirley started to fuss, and Mabyn shushed her. Shirley fell silent.

Since I’d never seen Shirley take direction, I was impressed. “I’m buying a last-minute gift.”

“Someone you’re ambivalent about?” Mabyn nodded to the copy of
Psycho
in my hand.

I popped it back on the shelf, then I laughed because clearly, I’d been caught. “Ginger.”

“Oh, of course. If you’re deciding between that and the CD, I’d go with the movie.”

I had to probe. “You probably have some idea why I’m having a small lapse in Christmas spirit.”

“I had a bird’s-eye view of the entire incident in your dining room. To my mind your sister—what’s her name?”

“Sid.”

“Sid struck a blow for scorned women everywhere.”

I went limp. “I think you were the only one who saw it.”

“And you’re wondering if I’ve told everyone my version, aren’t you?”

“Crossed my mind.”

“Not to worry. I have a few relatives I’ve wanted to shove a time or two myself. If Fern tells me how to raise my daughter one more time, I’m going punch bowl shopping myself.”

Shirley fussed again and Mabyn switched her to the other hip, rummaged in her purse for a small stuffed toy, and handed it to her. Shirley quieted immediately.

Gratitude loosened my tongue. “This isn’t any of my business, but Shirley seems to do fine when you’re alone with her.”

Mabyn brightened. “You think?”

“I’m really impressed. When she’s at church or whenever Fern’s around—” I stopped myself. This was not an appropriate conversation.

“No, now you have to go on, Aggie.”

“Well . . . Shirley’s probably a little confused about who’s in charge. And kids love to pit grown-ups against each other. They figure it out quickly, or at least mine did.”

“I know you’re right, but I’m terrified of Fern. Howard is, too. We should never have left Cincinnati. Fern’s criticism is like sandpaper wearing us down. I used to be in public relations and advertising. I ate bullies for breakfast. But Fern?”

“She really loves Shirley.” I paused, considering my next words. “That can work to your advantage.”

“How?”

“Well, tugs-of-war aren’t good for children.” I really didn’t want to put ideas in her head or say more, but I hoped she understood what I hadn’t said.

“So if Fern realizes the conflict is hurting Shirley, she might stop?”

“With a little nudge.” I held up my hands, the wrapping paper still firmly clamped under my arm, just in case. “But you have to find your own way on this.”

“You haven’t said anything I didn’t know already.” She smiled. “But it does help that you think I’m doing okay with my daughter.”

“Better than okay. Don’t let anybody shake your confidence. You have a lot of years ahead as her mom.”

“I’ll think about this.”

“Thanks for keeping my secret.”

“And thanks for the advice.”

I wanted to tell Mabyn this wasn’t really advice, that I was just making an observation or two, and that most of all, I was not telling her to declare out-and-out war on her in-laws—who give generously to the church and are always looking for an excuse to clear out the parsonage.

But Mabyn and Shirley were swept away in the sea of last-minute Christmas shoppers, and I was left with my jealously guarded wrapping paper and my own family problems. While I stood there shaking my head at my own interference, somebody who probably had more problems than I do bought the last copy of
Psycho
. This had to be a sign. Silently I asked for forgiveness and took the Vienna Choir Boys home for Ginger.

7

Our girls have never known a Christmas Eve without a candlelight service, so as darkness approached they got ready without prompting. Junie was excited about the pageant, even though she has temporarily settled on interplanetary colonization as an answer to life’s biggest questions. Junie’s personal theology is like a river that rushes downstream, gathering and encompassing everything in its path. Sometimes the waters move too swiftly.

Vel and Sid had volunteered to come to the service, too. Sid may have spent last night punching her pillow, but now she looked as if she was determined to get over Bix Minard. At least she doesn’t have to ask herself what
she
did wrong. She was that far ahead in the recovery game.

Vel finally dragged herself away from the stove. For our dinner Junie had made honey wheat bread and vegetable soup that would simmer in the slow cooker until we returned from church. Ginger and Cliff weren’t coming to the service, but they would meet us at 7:00 for one final family love feast.

There are disadvantages to living where we do. The church is beside and behind the parsonage, with only a narrow alley and postage stamp parking lot to separate us. This means that everyone who needs a key or wants to discuss whether to use organic or chemical fertilizer on the church lawn finds their way to our door. On the other hand, Ed can be at work in a minute, and if I need him, I don’t have to wait.

Tonight I was delighted to live so close, both to the church and the Oval. We were able to leave at the last minute, filing quietly out the door and walking to the park in silence. Teddy slipped her hand in mine, and even Deena stayed close to me. The Oval is roughly a tree-studded acre of grass with a bandstand in the middle. The bandstand is embellished with gingerbread trim that tonight sported beribboned pine swags and twinkling white lights woven through the lattice work.

Browning Kefauver, the town’s unfortunate choice for mayor, sat in one of the six chairs that had been set up in the bandstand for the gathering, along with some of the town’s most prominent ministers. Brownie is a nondescript little man with protruding ears, no backbone, and few principles. I know things about Brownie that would curl the straightest hair. Let’s just say letting Brownie preside over a nativity pageant is like letting the CEO of Exxon preside over a Greenpeace rally.

Maybe it’s that pesky church and state split, or maybe just that Brownie does know how to quit while he’s ahead, but once the festivities began, he was only a figurehead. The ministers took over the event. There were to be no prayers or readings here, but someone has judged that singing carols is legal as long as a few secular songs are sung as well. I can imagine the session that led to making specific choices. Yes to “Good King Wenceslas,” because it’s a history lesson about helping the poor. Yes to Longfellow’s “I Heard the Bells” because it’s a nondenominational story of hope vs. despair. Still, count me among those who are pleased and relieved we’re trying to respect all the citizens and religions of Emerald Springs.

The Lutheran choir was in front of the bandstand, all thirty of them in white robes with red stoles over heavy winter gear. Men and women with red and green armbands walked through the crowd distributing lyrics to almost a dozen carols. A quintet of shivering high school students began to play. Their counterparts would be waiting at the nativity.

I scanned the crowd for Ed, but he wasn’t sitting in the bandstand. I thought he was probably gathering our church members, and after two verses of “Here We Come a-Wassailing” I spotted him. We wound our way to the east and found about forty Tri-C members huddled around my husband. Unfortunately, Fern and Samuel Booth were among them, along with Howard. Mabyn and Shirley were noticeably absent.

I shepherded my family to the other side, hoping to avoid the Booths, but Fern spotted me and came right over.

“A-Wassailing” ended and there was a brief pause as the orchestra shifted their music. Silently I egged them on, hoping to avoid a conversation.

The strains of “Let There Be Peace on Earth” began, and even though no one appreciates the finer qualities of my voice, I joined in with enthusiasm.

Fern cared not one whit. “I see you have your entire family with you.”

I smiled at her and didn’t quit singing.

“You’ll notice
I
don’t,” Fern said. “I understand you and Mabyn had a little talk today.”

I glanced at Howard, who looked only a bit chagrined.

I stopped singing where everybody else took a breath. “I always enjoy a chat with Mabyn.”

“Mabyn refused to bring Shirley tonight. The child is at home with her mother on Christmas Eve. They won’t even be at our holiday dinner after the service.”

I looked sympathetic. “I’m sure you’ll miss them, but of course you wouldn’t want Shirley out in this weather or up late when she’s got a cold. You’re lucky to have a daughter-in-law with such good sense about children.”

“I don’t know what you said to Mabyn, but I hope you’re not interfering, Mrs. Wilcox.”

I paused, but not long enough. “Well, no, honestly, if I was going to interfere, I’d just tell you right to your face how important it is to step back a little and give your children some room to do their job. Because that’s going to be best for Shirley, and I know how much you love her. Grand-mothers have such a special place in families.” I nodded to Junie in her fake zebra skin coat, her arms around both my daughters.

“And
your
mother never tells you what to do?”

“My mother makes me feel like everything I do is right, even when she has suggestions.”

“I suppose that explains a lot about your family.”

I put my hand on her arm and squeezed gently. “Thank you. It really does.”

She was clearly furious. She turned with military precision and marched back to her husband and son. I tried to figure out how I was going to explain the shortfall in next year’s church budget to my husband. Goodbye to my new kitchen floor.

Three carols later I was more or less back in the spirit of things. Our little group had arms around each other’s waists, swaying back and forth as we sang. Night was like a curtain swiftly drawn. One moment the Oval was suffused in winter’s gray light, the next only the street lamps provided a glow.

The orchestra switched to background music, and people began to line up informally to march to the nativity. No camel arrived to lead us this year, since the cost of camel rental had been so astronomical that last year’s pageant committee had been forced to sponsor bake sales all the way into July to pay for it.

Now on cue, three young people in ornate, kingly robes, followed by “servants” bearing gifts, came out from behind the Baptist church and processed majestically to the head of the line. I was delighted to see that one of the kings was actually a queen, a teenager who babysits for us occasionally, with her long blonde hair pinned and hidden under a gold crown.

Brownie, whose signature bow tie was visible under his wool coat, joined the ministers who formed a phalanx behind the kings, followed by the robed Lutheran choir. Then, as the orchestra played, we headed for the Catholic church.

Five of the major Emerald Springs churches are directly on the Oval. Six more are set just a block back. I guess in the earliest days, churchgoing was a major form of recreation here and splitting into factions must have been, as well. For such a small town there are a number of choices. We have several Catholic churches, but St. Benedict’s is the only one on the Oval.

The procession took a few minutes. The nativity had been set up in the parking lot behind the church because the front is narrow and taken up by marble steps and a portico. We wound our way to the back along the driveway. I hadn’t viewed the scene, which had been set up here for the past week, but someone at the open house had reported it was particularly impressive.

Impressive was the right word. The stable took up a good tenth of the lot. The doorways leading into the stalls were cleverly arched, and the crenelated detail above them suggested Holy Land architecture. Hay bales and animals peeked from doorways and windows, and a donkey stood with his head over a stall door. The actual manger scene was in front of the facade, however. The manger itself looked like the real thing. I guessed that some Emerald Springs farm was temporarily missing a feed trough. Small leafless trees with burlap-wrapped root-balls outlined the scene, and more bales of hay completed the ambience.