Silent Night: A Raine Stockton Dog Mystery (26 page)

“It kind of makes you believe in the magic of Christmas,” she said.

“Speaking of Magic…”  I told her the story of Magic, Mischief, and the mysterious Christmas decorating caper, and she laughed out loud with delight.

“So it was Magic all along,” she practically chortled.  “Did I call it or not?  Mischief said she was framed.”

I may have mentioned that Sonny is a world-class attorney.  It did not, however, surprise me as much as you might think that she was more interested in the mystery of the dogs than in the major crime that had taken place in our small community in the past few days. 

“Mischief,” I replied with a small frown, “still has a lot of explaining to do. And so does Magic.  But what’s funny is that since we caught them on tape they’ve both been perfect angels. No more incidents.”

Sonny laughed.  “I guess they got their point across—whatever it was, of course.” 

“I guess.  As for Cisco,” I added, and the culprit's eyes lifted from his stuffed marrow bone long enough to give me a baleful look, “that's the last time my life will ever flash before my eyes because he doesn't know the meaning of  'stay.'  I think you were right," I admitted.  "First I had Hero living here, then it was the puppies, and Cisco was always pushed to the background.  So the first thing after Christmas we're starting a training program that will turn him into the star he already thinks he is.  Before the year is out, there won't be a blue ribbon in the state that doesn't have his name on it."

Sonny grinned.  "Cisco says every blue ribbon in the state
already
has his name on it.  You just don't know it yet."

She finished her coffee and reached for the pronged cane that helped her keep her balance on bad days.  “Well, I’ve got a long drive ahead.  Thanks for being my back-up with the house.” She stopped and looked at me with sudden query, her expression filled with concern.  “It just occurred to me. Are you going to be alone for Christmas?”

I gave her a casual, dismissing wave.  “Don’t be silly.  I’m going to have a great Christmas.”  I was going to be alone for Christmas.

“Because with Maude in Florida and your aunt and uncle on the cruise….”

Cisco interrupted with a single
woof
and looked up from his bone with ears pricked and eyes pointed toward the window.  A moment later I saw a glint of sunlight reflected on the highly waxed surface of a black town car as it pulled into the circular drive in front of my house.  Mischief and Magic grabbed their bones and scurried toward the front door.  Cisco barked again, decided he had done his duty and turned back to his bone with renewed enthusiasm.

When I opened the door, a neatly groomed man in a Burberry overcoat stood there with a briefcase, looking cold and uncomfortable, his collar turned up against the wind.  I glanced over his shoulder at the expensive car parked in my driveway and then back at him.  He was definitely a stranger.

“Miss Stockton?”

I nodded.

“My name is Jason Wells.”  He handed me a card from his pocket.  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for over a week.  I left several messages and even stopped by a couple of times.  It’s important that I speak with you. “

I glanced at the card and gradually made the connection with the multiple telephone messages he had left.  “You are persistent,” I said, and offered the card back to him, “but I’m not interested.  I have all the insurance I can afford.”

“This is not about insurance,” he assured me.  A blast of wind made the Christmas wreath that was hung on the porch column swing, and he hunched his shoulders against it, glancing down at the two dogs by my side.  “Do you think we could talk inside?  It’s about Esther Kelp.”

I felt a sinking in my stomach, and I opened the door wider to admit him.  “Oh, no.  Is she dead?”

“She was fine the last time I spoke with her,” he said as he stepped inside.  “She’s living with her grandson in California.  She’s the one who gave me your name. If you prefer, of course, we can do this at your attorney’s office, but…” He smiled, “It’s almost Christmas, and I have children back in Boston, and the sooner we can get this wrapped up the happier I’ll be.”

I was more confused than ever and a little alarmed.  “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

Sonny came up behind me.  “Is everything okay, Raine?”

“He says I need an attorney.”

I could sense all of Sonny’s lawyerly instincts switch on, and she turned her gaze on the stranger.  “I’m Miss Stockton’s attorney.  What’s this all about?”

“Please,” said Mr. Wells, “I can explain everything if we can just sit down a minute.”

I glanced at Sonny, gave a small shrug, and led the way back into the living room, where there was a cheery fire.  Cisco, sprawled out in front of the Christmas tree with his bone, glanced up and swished his tail in greeting, but could not be bothered further.  Mischief and Magic flopped down beside him. 

When we were settled, Mr. Wells got right to the point.  “I represent the estate of John F. Kennedy,” he said without preamble, and my eyes widened.  “I understand Mrs. Kelp gave you some items of historical significance that the family would very much like to have for their private collection.  I’m prepared to offer you a significant sum for their return.”

I looked at Sonny, but she seemed as confused as I was.  I looked back at Mr. Wells.  “The shoes?” I said.

Now he looked confused.  “What shoes?”

“The ones Miss Esther gave me.  She said she had danced with Jack Kennedy in them.”

He frowned a little. “Miss Stockton, I’m not here about shoes.  I understood you were in possession of a number of letters that were written to Mrs.  Kelp by—well, as I said, they are of considerable historical significance.  You
do
have them, don’t you?”

Sonny said, “Letters?”  She looked at me.  “You never said anything about letters.”

“There was an envelope of letters and old postcards in the bottom of the shoes box that Mischief—I mean Magic—kept dragging around.  Magic is my dog,” I explained to Mr. Wells, and I thought his face actually lost a little color.

“You don’t mean—your dog didn’t–?”

“Oh no, they’re fine,” I assured him.  “My dogs don’t destroy things.  Most of the time.  I was going to send the letters back to Miss Esther, but I haven’t had time to find her new address.”

He released a cautious breath. “May I see them?”

I went to the dining room, where I had stored the empty boxes of Christmas decorations, and found the shoe box tucked inside one of them.  I brought the manila envelope back into the living room and watched in absolute astonishment as Jason Wells put on a pair of white gloves before removing the contents and then, very carefully, unfolding and scanning the letters that were inside.  A smile spread over his face as he read.  I never got to see what they said.  Or who they were from.

The only sound was the munching of dog bones for the longest time.  He refolded and replaced the letters in their original envelopes with the greatest of care and then placed the envelopes in a plastic bag that he took from his briefcase.  From the same briefcase he took out a sheaf of legal-sized papers, on top of which was clipped a check.  The check he passed to me.  The papers he passed to Sonny.  “This is what we are prepared to offer for the letters,” he said.  To Sonny he added, “These are the conditions of the sale.”

I stared at the numbers on the check.  The last time I had seen that many of them I had been in a bank, signing loan papers.  I looked up at him.  “Is this a joke?”

“I assure you, it is not.”

I looked at Sonny, who had her glasses on and was intently scrutinizing the document she had been handed.  “Is this a joke?”

She murmured, without looking up, “Apparently not.”

I looked again at the check.  It was enough to complete the renovations on my building,
and
make up for the business we had lost while being closed.
 
It was more than enough.

Mr. Wells added, “You understand we are only interested in the letters. But as an estate appraiser, I have to tell you many of the postcards are quite collectible—some are worth thousands.  They are yours to do with as you please, of course.”

“Come on,” I said, starting to grin as I glanced down at the postcards spilling from the envelope.  “Who put you up to this?”

Sonny flipped the last page of the contract and removed her glasses.  “It looks authentic to me.  There’s even a signed letter of transfer from Mrs. Kelp, giving you full ownership of everything that was in that envelope.”

Once again, I stared at her, my head reeling.  “But—but if this stuff really is that valuable, she shouldn’t have given it to me.  This belongs to her family, her grandson.  I’m sure they could use it for her care.”

Mr. Wells chuckled.  “Miss Stockton, do you know who her grandson is?”

I shook my head. 

“Believe me, he doesn’t need the money.  Here, ask her for yourself.”  He took another paper from his briefcase upon which was written a telephone number with an unfamiliar area code.  “Call her.”

Far away in California my telephone call was answered by a man who identified himself as Miss Esther’s grandson.  When he told me his name, I almost dropped the phone.  His last movie had grossed 82 million dollars on opening weekend. 

Eventually I managed to gather my wits enough to ask, “Did you—um, did you happened to buy the rights to Miss Esther’s life story for a movie?”

He chuckled. “I’ve been trying to get Gran to let me make that movie for over ten years.  We settled the deal the day after she got out here.  It’s going to be huge.  Huge.”

We chatted for a few more minutes—he was a really nice man—and he assured me he had copies of the letters and was more than happy to let the originals go to the estate.  Then he transferred me to Esther’s cottage and she was delighted to hear from me.  She told me about the orange tree that grew outside her window and having lunch at Spago and oh, yes, the movie her grandson was making of her life.
 
I tried to thank her for the enormity of her gift but she was dismissive.  “I knew you’d put it to good use,” she said.  “Lord knows, it's been a curse and a blessing all my life, and I’m glad to know I'm only passing on the blessing.”

Finally I got up the courage to ask her the big question.  “Did you really work for the CIA?”

Her laugh was light and musical and took me back, across the miles, to all the good times and good stories we had shared together. “Now, honey, you’re just going to have to watch my movie, aren’t you?  You give that sweet Cisco a hug, you hear?  And have a merry Christmas.”

I was beginning to think I would.

The crew that Miles loaned me did not completely get my building finished before Christmas, but almost.  The indoor runs were completed, the training room needed only paint, and the grooming room was lacking only the tubs.  Cisco's big Christmas present—the one I could not wait to try out—was the new indoor agility training ring, complete with recycled rubber flooring and brand new, state-of-the-art, solid-steel agility equipment.  Beginning first thing Christmas morning, Cisco and I were going to start training for the national championship. After all, if I could discover a fortune in a fifty-year-old box of shoes, anything was possible.

  In my new, bright yellow and primary blue office—two of the easiest colors for dogs to see, by the way—there was a framed vintage postcard of Lassie doing her famous wave.  All of the other post cards had gone into the safety deposit box with my mother’s jewelry and awaited appraisal. 

On Christmas Eve morning, Miles and Melanie stopped by for brunch on their way to Myrtle Beach.  Aunt Mart had dropped off Majesty the night before, and she greeted the company in a red velvet, jingle bell collar with her classic bouncing collie bark.  Melanie placed a huge, cellophane wrapped basket filled with dog toys, dog biscuits and gourmet dog cookies underneath the Christmas tree, and told me how she had hand-picked each treat from the pet store in Asheville.
 
All of the dogs, of course, fixated upon the basket, which made her giggle with delight.  The best thing about my dogs is that they know how to appreciate a gift when it’s offered.

She had chosen a darling little gift pack of red-and-white plush toys for the orphaned puppy that even I had begun to call Pepper.  It was hard to see the disappointment on Melanie’s face when she ran to the kitchen only to see that the ex-pen—and the puppy—were  gone, but when I explained to her that the puppy had found a new home with a great family, she took it bravely.
 
“Maybe I can mail this to her,” she said, gazing down sadly at the gaily wrapped Christmas package.  I assured her that she could, and she made an effort to pretend that was okay.

“I guess I’ll be having a new home too,” she added with exaggerated casualness, and I met Miles’s eyes over her head with a smile in my own.  “Right after Christmas, I’m going to start looking at schools in Atlanta.  So these new people, do they have a fenced yard?”

I promised her they did.

“Who’s their vet?”

I told her they weren’t from around here.

“But they signed her up for puppy classes, right?”