'Tis the Season to Be Murdered Read online

  Apparently these were not burning questions to Chrissy; she was more interested in the cappuccino. “That’s done, isn’t it?”

  Susan poured two tiny cups of coffee, squirting steaming milk on top. “Want some sugar or artificial sweetener?”

  “I can get it. You know, it isn’t like you to hire a caterer. Is anything wrong?” Chrissy asked the question when her back was to her mother.

  Susan stirred sugar into the drink. The question surprised her. She wasn’t accustomed to concern about her life from her daughter. Usually it was the other way around. She was relieved when Jed’s entrance eliminated the need for her to respond.

  “Do I smell coffee?”

  “Decaf cappuccino. Do you want some?”

  “I’ll get it,” Chrissy offered quickly.

  “Thanks. But I hope no one will be offended if I take this upstairs and sip it in a warm bed. It’s been a great Christmas, but I’m beat.”

  “Me, too,” his daughter agreed. “And I’m going into the city tomorrow to see that exhibit at MOMA, so I have to get up early.”

  “I don’t think the museum opens till—”

  “I want to hit the after-Christmas sales at Bergdorf’s and Saks first. Good night.”

  Jed and Susan exchanged smiles. “She’s growing up,” Susan said.

  “But she’s still the best shopper in the family,” Jed said. “Who else would even want to think about shopping the day after Christmas?”

  “I suppose,” Susan said, not bothering to admit that she had plans of her own for tomorrow. There was this great duffle coat that she expected to be on sale at Saks. “I’ll take Clue out for a last walk and be right up.”

  The dog had a vocabulary that wouldn’t impress the scorers of the SATs, but it worked for her—and walk was right at the top of the list. Susan had a hard time getting the leash attached to the collar of the happily prancing dog, and she should have learned by now to put her coat on first. By the time they were outside, Susan and dog were both more than a little irritated. But the Henshaws lived on a large block, and by the time they were halfway around it, both dog and owner were happy and content.

  Bows on wreaths and evergreen swags fluttered in the breezes. Candles twinkled in the windows. Electric lights outlined Tudor paneling and circled hundreds of evergreens and small deciduous trees. Santas waved, and angels trumpeted from lawns and on roofs. Fragrant woodsmoke swirled from chimneys and out windows.…

  But something looked wrong. There was heavy smoke coming from the side of JoAnn Kent’s house. Susan tugged on the leash and ran up the driveway toward the large split-level, dog following happily. Clue seemed to feel that there was nothing like a midnight jog to cap off the holiday.

  Susan arrived at the front door and banged on it as hard as she could, her fists smashing the large pine cone wreath that hung on the dark green enamel. “JoAnn! JoAnn! There’s a fire!” She couldn’t for the life of her remember the name of the attractive, blond stockbroker who was Mr. Kent. She would just have to assume that he would hear the word fire and respond. “Fire! Fire!”

  The door opened so quickly that she almost fell inside. “Susan, for heaven’s sake! What are you yelling about? The fire’s out!” JoAnn Kent, trim and chic in a black velvet cat suit, tiny crystal angels dangling from each ear, was standing before her.

  “Your house …” Susan tried to catch her breath. “Your house is on fire.”

  “That’s just the kitchen fan. It’s still smoky in there. Someone left the small oven on after the goose was taken out, and the fat started to burn. Then the curtains caught fire. The whole room is a mess, and believe me, I’m going to sue the pants off The Holly and Ms. Ivy for it.” She glared at the dog who was bounding up and down. “Can’t you keep that monster under control?”

  “Clue! Stop jumping! She’s still a puppy. She’ll calm down soon.” Susan pulled on the leash, jerking her dog off the other woman. “There’s really no fire?”

  “There was, but now it’s just smoke.”

  “You said something about The Holly and Ms. Ivy.…”

  “Don’t tell me you were the person who recommended those idiots to me! I’ve been wondering just who I had to thank all day long!”

  “No, I don’t think.…”

  “Sure! You wouldn’t admit it now! Not after they ruined my Christmas dinner and practically burned down my newly remodeled kitchen! Now I’m going to have a large glass of Scotch and go to bed!” JoAnn looked down at her holiday attire. “After I pick your dog’s fur off my clothing!”

  Susan could only be glad that JoAnn had slammed the door before noticing that Clue was chewing up the large satin ribbon that had been decorating one of the pair of topiaries placed on either side of the door. “Come on, sweetie, time for bed.”

  Clue trotted happily all the way home, ribbon hanging from her mouth.

  TWO

  Susan tried to stay in bed the next morning. It was Boxing Day in England; she had decided to adopt that tradition and take the day off, sleeping late before doing some leisurely shopping. And she really gave it her best shot.

  There was a crisis with a client at the advertising agency where Jed was executive vice president, and he needed to be on the seven a.m. train into Grand Central. Since his wife wanted to sleep in, he hadn’t turned on the light in the bedroom, dressing from the glow of the fixture in the adjoining bath. He’d only dropped his shoes once, knocked his cappuccino cup (happily empty) off the dresser while feeling around for his wallet, pulled an electric candle out of a window checking on the weather, and squashed his wife’s feet when he sat on the bed to put on his socks. Susan wondered if it was a sign that they had been married too long when she found herself wondering if it was absolutely necessary for them to kiss good-bye. But she was sleepy, and the thought did not keep her awake for more than a second or two.

  Then she slept for a few more minutes before Chrissy stuck her head inside the door. “Mom? Are you asleep?”

  Would she deserve a Mother’s Day card if she didn’t answer? Did she even get a Mother’s Day card last year? Cursing her own integrity, she answered, “Good morning, Chrissy. What can I do for you?”

  “I need the train schedule. I’m going to the city, remember?”

  “It’s in the kitchen by the phone—exactly where it always is.”

  “I looked there.”

  “Look again.” The second word was hardly out of her mouth before she was asleep.

  She expected Chad to be next, but he didn’t usually lick her nose. “Lie down, Clue.” Jed hated the dog in bed with them. Susan, who remembered the days when both her children would pile under the quilt on the weekends, was happy to have company. She drifted back to sleep, with Clue’s head propped on her hip.

  “Bye, Mom. We’ll call for a ride if we get back late.”

  We? Late? A ride where? Susan decided she would worry about it later. It was her day to sleep. She stretched her toes to the bottom of the bed and buried her nose in the pile of down pillows at the head. She loved sleeping late. The warm quilt, the soft cotton sheets, the smell of chocolate scorching … She sat up in bed. “Chad!”

  “It’s okay. I picked it up!” Her son’s voice came faintly up the stairs.

  Susan thought for a moment. Clue eyed her, apparently wondering what the choice would be between staying here asleep and getting up for a brisk walk. Either way, the dog would be happy, but Susan remembered the temperature outdoors and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders. Chad was sixteen. He wasn’t going to let the house burn down.

  She closed her eyes, only to open them almost immediately. How could she have forgotten about the fire last night? What had she been thinking of? She couldn’t take the day off—she had to find out what was going on with The Holly and Ms. Ivy. And if it might wreck her New Year’s Eve party.

  She rolled over in bed and pulled open the drawer in the nightstand by her side. A moss green notebook was tucked in the drawer, a tiny silver pen marking her pl
ace. Susan started to skim the filled pages, wishing a cup of coffee would magically appear. A compulsive list maker, Susan read columns of things to do, food to bake, presents to buy—all work that had gone into making yesterday a success. Somewhere in the middle of all this were two different lists: one, of things she wanted to get done after the holidays were over (starting, of course, with losing the same ten pounds she was so familiar with); the other, of subjects she had discussed with Gwen Ivy during the planning for her party this Saturday.

  Susan mulled over her first meeting with Gwen Ivy while she searched. They had run into each other in front of the cheese counter at Dean and DeLuca the week before Thanksgiving. Susan, still reeling from the flu, had been feeling foggy and having a difficult time making her selection when she noticed a familiar figure ahead of her.

  Gwen Ivy was well known as half of the most famous catering and party-giving company in Connecticut. They were located in Hancock, and Susan had often gone to parties in the city, been asked where she lived, and when she replied, the unvarying response was something like “Oh, that’s where Holly and Ivy are located, isn’t it?” This was usually followed by wondering whether Susan had ever hired this famous team. She always answered that she loved planning her own parties, much to her companion’s disappointment. She had been thinking about all this at the cheese counter when she realized she was staring at the caterer. And she wasn’t the only person in the room doing so.

  Gwen Ivy was chic. Her blond hair, pale almost to ivory, was cut in a geometric helmet from which an assortment of unique earrings dangled. She was not so much clothed as draped in layers of fabulous fabrics, which she peeled on and off as the seasons dictated. On that particular day, Gwen was wearing burnished suede boots that contrasted nicely with layers of forest green and camel wool. Earrings of carved amber matched a wide cuff of the same material on her wrist. Susan had noticed the wrist particularly since it was near the list Gwen Ivy held. That shopping list was keeping Susan inside this overheated store, wearing her heaviest wool melon coat over a mohair sweater set that she had chosen this morning for its warmth. She began to feel like she might faint …

  “Are you okay? Maybe we should sit down?”

  Susan realized that Gwen Ivy was speaking to her. “I don’t feel very well,” she admitted. “It’s hot.”

  “It is. Why don’t we get something cool to drink? Over there,” Gwen Ivy suggested, taking her elbow gently.

  “What about your packages?”

  “We’ll take care of them for Ms. Ivy.” A helpful clerk had appeared at their side, leading them to a seat and eyeing a hovering waiter to clear the table immediately.

  “You live in Hancock, don’t you?” Gwen Ivy asked, after they had ordered two iced coffees.

  Susan, busy taking off her coat, nodded.

  “I thought I’d seen you around. You’re famous for investigating murders—and you were at the Malloy’s party last weekend, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. You did the catering. It was wonderful.” Susan was feeling a little better. “Do you give out recipes? The chèvre pastries were wonderful.”

  “We don’t usually, but if you look in the latest Junior League cookbook, you’ll find something you might recognize—just add a half cup of pignoli nuts.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And maybe you’ll give me your recipe for paella? I’ve heard it’s wonderful.”

  “Of course. I learned it in a class I took years ago at the New School.” Susan stirred a spoonful of sugar into the tall glass of caramel-colored liquid. “You heard about my recipe?”

  “That and more. Your parties are the talk of the town.”

  Susan felt well enough to smile. “I always enjoyed giving parties.”

  Gwen Ivy leaned a little more closely toward Susan. “Is there any reason that you said that in the past tense?”

  Susan shook her head. “I had the flu this fall, and I can’t seem to shake it. Nothing is as much fun as it used to be.”

  “Are you having a large crowd for Thanksgiving?”

  “Not this year. We’re going to a friend’s home. But I’ll start baking for Christmas soon, and I have to get busy planning our annual New Year’s Eve party.” And that’s when the idea struck. “I never really understood why people hire caterers—until now. I mean, Christmas cookies are fun, but I just can’t get excited about a big party.”

  “Well, you could call off the party and take a vacation.” Gwen Ivy paused. “Or you could hire The Holly and Ms. Ivy to organize everything.” She raised well-tended eyebrows. “Sometimes a break is what people need the most—and I’d love working on a party with you.”

  And that’s how it happened. Susan looked down at the list she had finally found. Instead of being a list of things she had to do, this year it was a list of things she expected someone else to tend to. She didn’t know how things usually went with other caterers, but working with Z Holly and Gwen Ivy had been a lot of fun.

  Z, as he called himself, was as boyishly charming as Gwen was chic. They had explained that they were the founders and co-owners of The Holly and Ms. Ivy (having agreed on the name after consuming two full bottles of Moët brut), and that they were thrilled to have the Henshaws’ business. As Gwen had put it, “Doing a party for you will really make our reputation in this town.”

  Flattered, Susan had made this list, examined menus, ripped out ideas from magazines, consulted numerous times with both Z and Gwen, prepared a guest list, written a check, and then got on with her preparations for Christmas. It had been delightful. Of course, that would change immediately if The Holly and Ms. Ivy turned out to be incompetent. And burning down your employer’s kitchen would surely be considered incompetent. It was certainly no way to encourage future business. And what exactly had Chrissy been saying she’d overheard about Courtney’s party?

  Susan leapt out of bed so quickly that the dog had to roll over to keep up. “Chrissy!” she called out.

  “She’s gone. Didn’t you hear her?” Chad yelled up the stairs.

  “No. I didn’t,” Susan answered, thinking she would have to speak with her daughter about this. “Would you walk Clue, Chad? I have to—”

  “Mom! I’m on my way out the door. The guys are waiting for me.”

  “Where are you—”

  “Skiing. A whole bunch of us are going up north for the day. Don’t you remember? I told you about it last Friday as well as yesterday. You really don’t pay any attention to me now that the college kid is home, do you?”

  “I—” Susan heard someone honk impatiently in her driveway. She wondered how many of her neighbors were also having their sleep interrupted by her children. “Go ahead and have a wonderful time,” she urged in as pleasant a voice as she could manage, biting her tongue before it could recite maternal warnings about frostbitten toes and broken limbs. Chad wasn’t listening anyway.

  The front door slammed, and she ran to the window in time to see a red Jeep skid up over the curb and out of her driveway, narrowly missing the antique Jaguar XKE that was the much-loved transportation of her friend Kathleen Gordon. Chad waved vaguely back toward the house, and he was off.

  Susan wondered if he had remembered to take his new gloves. She looked down at Clue, and Clue looked up at her. “Be glad you’re spayed. It will save you hours of worry.”

  Clue wagged her tail, perfectly happy to be agreeable until after her morning walk and a big breakfast.

  “Just let me get dressed, and we’ll hit the sidewalk,” Susan said, avoiding the w word. She glanced out the window while going through her dresser, expecting to see Kathleen’s car parked in the drive. Except for fresh skid marks, the macadam was bare. Susan opened her mouth and then shut it. She really had to stop chatting with the dog. She pulled a cotton turtleneck from the drawer and slipped it over her head. Jeans, a heavy V-neck wool sweater, wool socks, and fur-lined boots completed her outfit. She dressed for weather rather than for style—a good thing, since she hadn’t done any laundry
since the beginning of last week. Her underwear drawer in particular looked a little empty. And it seemed to be getting emptier.

  “Drop it, Clue!” Susan ordered in what she was coming to think of as her obedience-class voice. Surprisingly, the retriever opened her mouth and dropped Susan’s expensive ivory silk bra on the floor. Only to grab it up again as Susan reached for it. The puppy was barely one year old. Susan was in her midforties. Experience would lose to enthusiasm and reflexes. Her only chance was superior intelligence.

  “Let’s go for a walk, Clue,” Susan called over her shoulder, striding from the room. She didn’t look down until they were in the hallway.

  It had worked. Clue, mouth empty, was panting with excitement. Susan attached the dog’s new leash to her collar, opened the door, and headed out into the cold.

  The sky was gray, and the air smelled like snow. Susan smiled, thinking of how happy that had made her children when they were young and had received sleds and skis for Christmas. Then she frowned. Chad and Chrissy were away from home, one in the city, and one in the mountains. A storm would be more threatening than exciting—at least for their mother until they were both safe at home. Clue was tugging on the leash, trying to start down the street. Susan obediently trotted behind, pleased that they were heading toward the Kents’ home. Checking in this morning would be the neighborly thing to do. Besides, she had to know what was going on with her caterers. And it looked like she was going to hear the story from the horse’s mouth. Parked in the drive of the Kent home was the distinctive forest green van of The Holly and Ms. Ivy. Sitting in the driver’s seat was Gwen Ivy. Susan hurried over.

  “Gwen! Hi!”

  The cap of blond hair turned slowly, and Susan gasped. Gwen Ivy had a hideous black eye. She grimaced and greeted Susan. “Hi, yourself. Merry Christmas a day late. Although I certainly wish it were Halloween. I’d like to hide this thing behind a mask.”

  “What happened?” It was out of Susan’s mouth before she realized that it might be rude to ask.

  “I ran into Santa’s fist.”