Read Online A Holly, Jolly Murder by Joan Hess - Free Book Online Page B

“I’m having a few people on Christmas Eve for nog and nonsense. Caron’s welcome to come, but she’ll probably go into a coma at the suggestion. Can you and Peter make it?”
    I told her where he was and why, then said, “He sounded as though he’ll stay there until either his mother stuffs a negligee in the pocket of her mink coat and vanishes, or Myron is exposed as a polygamist with weeping wives scattered across the country like fast-food franchises.”
    Luanne chuckled. “Maybe this’ll cause him to rethink his position on matrimony and stop bugging you to tie the knot and don the gay apparel of legirons and joint tax returns.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said, then changed the subject by telling her about Caron’s job at Santa’s Workshop. “Do you want to go to the mall with me this evening?” I added. “For fifteen bucks you can sit on Santa’s knee and whisper your kinkiest fantasies in his ear.”
    â€œI might. What does he look like?”
    â€œWell, Luanne, his nose is like a cherry and the beard on his chin is as white as the snow. When he laughs, his little round belly shakes like a bowlful of jelly. All in all, he’s a right jolly old elf.”
    â€œHo, ho,” she said without inflection. “Pick me up at six and we’ll check him out. Under all that fur and felt and excessive facial hair may well be a muscular bimboy who’ll fill my stocking on Christmas Eve.”
    After I’d hung up, I realized I’d never told her about my early-morning activities. I was curious to find out what progress Jorgeson had made—if any—but I suspected he might not appreciate a telephone call any more than Peter would have. Malthea had not elaborated on her comment that Nicholas’s death might not have resulted from natural causes, and had never really given me a clue as to the source of the friction the previous evening. Nicholas had objected to Gilda’s desire to celebrate the winter solstice without “the artificial restrictions of clothing,” to use Morning Rose’s phrase. The conflict, however, seemed more a matter of squabbling over policy than a calamity of measurable magnitude. What’s more, the remarks in the grove seemed to imply Nicholas had emerged the victor.
    I pushed aside the sparse notes and propped my face on my hands, wondering how I’d react if Peter came home and never again mentioned matrimony. Relieved—or rejected? Could our relationship continue indefinitely until the time came when we were more interested in sharing our beds with heating pads than with each other?
    The telephone jangled me out of my thoughts. As soon as I’d picked up the receiver, Malthea said, “Would it be possible for you to come to my house? I just don’t know what I should do, and Fern’s no help whatsoever.”
    â€œI might be able to come by tonight,” I said.
    â€œThat may be too late.”
    â€œWhy, Malthea? I have a business to operate, and I can’t leave a note on the counter asking customers to write themselves a receipt and make change from the drawer. I’d come back to empty shelves and an emptier cash register.”
    She snorted. “If that’s your attitude, then I shall walk to the store. My arthritis will slow me down, but I should arrive there in an hour or so—unless, of course, it begins to rain. In that case, it may take much longer. At my age, I must be cautious about falling and breaking a hip. When that happened to a neighbor of mine, her husband put her in a nursing home and took up with a woman who allowed their Siamese cat to choke to death on a chicken bone.”
    I looked out the window at the cloudless sky, sighed, and said, “I can’t stay more than half an hour.”
    â€œThat should be adequate. I’ll fix some sandwiches and we’ll have lunch while we talk.”
    At noon I hung the “closed”