A VIEW TO A CHILL Page 2

  The thought of her fruitcake made me nauseous. And not just because Mrs. Boyes’s fruitcake often had that effect. I refocused on the blinking lights.

  Mrs. Boyes's living room was brightly lit against the gray and gloom hanging between our homes. Someone was sitting on the couch. I blinked, then narrowed my eyes. It looked like a reindeer sitting upright, legs crossed, and drinking from a mug. He wore a blue sweater, which seemed unnecessarily warm for an inside reindeer. I felt unnecessarily warm, but couldn't seem to stop watching him. Rain pattered against the window, causing the reflected Christmas lights to crystallize. The reindeer bent forward, its attention fixed on the window. Or the rain. Or maybe he saw me. Watching him from my bed.

  A wave of fear flipped my stomach sideways.

  "Don't be a fool," I said. "That reindeer can't see you. You've got no lights on." I turned my attention from the creepy reindeer. My stomach shifted back in place, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

  I closed my eyes, opened them, and checked the window. The reindeer had disappeared. Wearing a blue sweater, Mrs. Boyes stood near the window, a package in hand. Probably ready to deposit it beneath the tree. My lids felt heavy, and my chin dipped to my chest. Rain pelted the window, lulling me to sleep.

  My head jerked up. The rain had stopped. The Christmas lights continued to blink. And another figure emerged from behind the couch. Santa.

  Had I slept my way to Christmas Eve? I licked my chapped lips, flexed my achy limbs, and wondered if these characters always appeared in flu-induced dreams. Maybe just at Christmas.

  On this side of the room, Mrs. Boyes was gesturing to Santa. Her wild arm waves made me queasy. I had enjoyed her more as a reindeer, as disconcerting as that had been. At least the reindeer hadn't made sudden movements. And now Santa was approaching the reindeer.

  Maybe he needed the reindeer to help with his sleigh?

  No, Santa seemed to be talking to the reindeer. Calming her.

  "Thank you, Santa," I whispered. "She'll give you cookies." Mrs. Boyes always had cookies. Unfortunately, the cookies were a better fit for skeet shoot practice than consumption. But she meant well.

  At that thought, another bilious wave washed over me. I shut my eyes, waiting for the wave to crash. Rain splattered against the pane. I opened my eyes and refocused on the window, now oily with raindrops.

  The reindeer pointed toward her front door and turned from Santa. Santa retraced his steps to the door and opened it. I struggled to keep my watch.

  This odd Christmas special was wearing me out.

  Movement caught my eye. Santa hadn't exited the door. He crept around the couch while Mrs. Boyes faced her tree.

  She half-turned. Santa lunged. Grabbing a string of Christmas lights, Santa wrapped them around Mrs. Boyes's neck. She flailed against Santa. He jerked the light cord. Lights sparked and went out.

  I jerked upright and leaned forward, fighting the vicious churning in my belly and the spots in my vision.

  Her arms clawing at his suit, Mrs. Boyes slid down Santa's body. She yanked at his beard, ripping it sideways. Santa bent over her. And Mrs. Boyes disappeared beneath the window sill.

  My head felt like it was going to explode. Heat scorched my neck. The churning in my stomach became a razor-sharp clawing I couldn't ignore. I rolled to the edge of the bed, slid to the floor, and crawled to the bathroom.

  On my return, I dragged myself to the window and gripped the sides to stay upright. Leaning my perspiring forehead against the chilled glass, I searched the house next door. Once again, the Christmas lights blinked in syncopated rhythm on the tree. In my rectangular frame of reference, the living room was empty of people. A red blanket had been folded over the sofa's back. No reindeer. No Santa.

  Sleet splattered against the roof and struck my window. Shivering, I lurched back to bed, burrowed beneath the blankets, and tried to make sense of what I saw. I had no idea how long I was in the bathroom. Unfortunately, I had passed out on the floor and woke up shaking from the cold. My room was dark. Maybe some trick of light since the bathroom had been so bright. Or maybe it was the rain. Or sleet. Or whatever was going on outside.

  An icy gust rattled my pane. I shivered. Had I seen a crime or had it been a dream?

  Unsettled, I pulled my sketchbook off the nightstand and drew Santa and the poor reindeer from memory. My recollection seemed clear despite the morbidly odd subject. My eyes grew hot and itchy, my body languorously heavy.

  “I’ve got to report it," I muttered. “And I better do it now. I can't stay awake for nothing. Lord, help me. I don't know up from down."

  Reaching outside the blankets and into the biting chill, I snatched my phone from the bedside table and stole it under the covers. I thumb dialed a number.

  "I need to report an attempted murder," I mumbled. "I saw Santa strangling a reindeer."

  3 Maizie Albright

  #WinterNotSoWonderfulLand

  * * *

  Sleet pelted the windows of Tiffany's Pontiac as I pulled off the slippery interstate and took the local highway into Halo. Halo's not a big town. On the outskirts are a few fast food places, an old Waffle Hut, and a Ford dealership. There's a train track that'll give you whiplash bumping over it and two boulevards that intersect into a kind of town square, which consisted of churches on each corner. Very old school Southern with bungalows, Victorian-type houses with deep porches, and some bigger homes that probably were once stately, but now appeared ragged around the edges.

  Twenty-first century Mayberry. Kind of sad.

  Black Pine would be like that if it wasn't a resort town with a lot of old money. And new money. The newest money being the film industry. Bad luck for an ex-celebrity who was told to stay away from the industry by a kind, yet firm judge in California. So hard to keep up with probation requirements when your reality show follows you to Georgia and stays because it's cheaper to film in Georgia than California. They're not allowed to film me.

  Unless, apparently, I'm on the B-roll.

  Martha Mae, Mrs. Fowler's sister, lived in one of the cottages leading away from the square, closer to the train tracks. It was a cute house squeezed between two other similarly-aged bungalows. Lights swayed from the porch, a big wreath hung on the door, and poinsettias lined the porch steps. The cottages on either side weren't as kept-up as Martha Mae's. It gladdened my heart to see someone caring so well for the historic home. It was probably as old as the tracks.

  The poinsettias didn't look any happier than I did about the craptastic weather. I dodged icy raindrops that pelted my puffy Uniqulo jacket as I dashed from the curb to Martha Mae's porch. Slipping on the top step, I smacked a poinsettia with my boot, tipping the pot. I knelt to right the pot and placed it back in the saucer where a key lay. I guessed Martha Mae no longer kept her doors unlocked like small-town people used to do in the old days. But Martha Mae certainly didn't go to extreme lengths to keep her home protected from burglaries.

  Nash would have had a field day with Martha Mae's lack of security. Most of our (few) jobs were security systems. The private investigation side of the business had taken a hit with two notorious cases we (I) had been (inadvertently) (sort-of inadvertently) involved in. Nash would have recommended trip alarms on the doors and windows with a keypad entry.

  But then Martha Mae would have to key in her code every time a neighbor stopped by for coffee or a cup of sugar. She'd end up leaving the alarm off to simplify things. Ah, small-town life. Wouldn't it be nice to live in a place where everyone knew where you kept your key?

  Or would it?

  From her porch, I gazed out at the wet neighborhood where bright lights blinked from porches and gutters. Yards were decorated (including a humongous inflatable polar bear), and wreaths hung on the doors. Halo may not be glamorous, but it was cozy and safe. Black Pine wasn't much bigger, but the wealth invited greater vices and bigger crimes.

  Which made me worry about Martha Mae. Krystal the con artist might take the sweet old lady for a ride. I turned bac
k to the door and rang the bell. Rubbing my hands together, I waited and still getting no answer, knocked. Leaned out the porch and double checked that I had seen a car in the drive. Yep. A Buick LeSabre sedan. I wondered why she hadn't parked in the garage on a day like this.

  Martha Mae's front windows were not shaded. I'd had some bad luck with peeping in windows and seeing things I shouldn't (a dead body for one), so I hesitated. Then peered into the picture window, shading my eyes with my mittened hands. Her tree blinked from the far corner of the room, gifts piled beneath. A sturdy couch and two wingback chairs surrounded a coffee table and faced, I presumed, a TV in the opposite corner from the tree. My heart stung, knowing Martha Mae was a widow with no children.

  I'd have to wait until Martha Mae arrived to find out if I had missed Krystal. One thing I'd learned from Nash about sensitive information, it was better to get it in person. It's a lot harder to lie, skirt the truth, or hang up when you speak face-to-face.

  Plus, I had driven all this way, and Martha Mae looked like the type who would have Christmas cookies on hand.

  In the meantime, I figured I might as well continue the Peeping Tom routine. I crossed the porch to the smaller set of windows. Christmas window clings —snowflakes, angels, and snowmen — and lack of light kept me from seeing much. A dining room. Table not set for company.

  Avoiding the slippery sidewalk, I crossed the wet grass to Tiffany's car waiting on the curb and slid inside. Huddled inside my coat, I pulled off my hat and shook out my damp hair, and used a tissue to blot the rain from my face. Rubbing my hands together, I gave myself over to warm thoughts.

  Roasting chestnuts on an open fire. Yule logs. Tahiti.

  Didn't help. I was wet and cold. I needed a hot shower, dry clothes, or at least a cup of coffee. Martha Mae’s garage door was closed. Maybe the Buick was an extra car. Or a neighbor had picked her up. Martha Mae didn't have a cell phone, she had a landline.

  Who didn't have a cell phone anymore? Besides me. Until Nash had given me the burner because couldn’t afford a smartphone. Aha. Answered my own question.

  I'd have to wait for Martha Mae's return. Wet, cold, and in need of coffee.

  Near the highway, the Waffle Hut had looked enticing. The sign said they had a Christmas waffle. Red velvet with whipped cream cheese. More importantly, they had a bathroom with, hopefully, a hand dryer.

  But what if Krystal showed while I was gone? Back in Black Pine, Mrs. Fowler's home phone didn't have a call log read-out. Her phone was attached to the wall with an actual cord. Avocado Green. Her sister probably had the same one in. Perhaps in harvest gold. So no phone number for Krystal. Google and social media hadn't revealed anything on the young woman either. She was off the grid.

  I couldn’t contact Krystal, yet Waffle Hut had red velvet waffles and hot coffee.

  A dilemma.

  I glanced at the house to the right of Martha Mae's. The cottage looked the most decrepit and the covered drive was filled with junk. It also wasn't decked out with Christmas decor like the others. An old yellow truck rested in the driveway, but it didn't look like it ran. The house was dark, and I assumed unoccupied. On the left, a cheerier cottage had a car in the drive and a Christmas tree in the front window. Also, the inflatable polar bear in the front yard.

  I pulled on my wet hat and mittens (yuck), shot out of the car, and quick-stepped through the drizzle to the polar bear's front porch. A woman answered her door at my knock.

  "Hello," I said. "My name is Maizie Albright. I'm waiting to talk to Martha Mae Boyes. She's not answering her door but is expecting me. Do you know where she went or when she'll be back?"

  She squinted at me. "Maizie Albright?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Did your parents name you after the actress?"

  Considering the actress was me and born on the same day, I didn't know how to answer. "No. I'm Maizie Albright."

  She smiled the smile of those speaking to the less intelligent. "Maybe you don't know her. Maizie Albright's an actress."

  "I know her. I was named after myself. Because that's me. I live in Georgia now."

  "Of course, you do, hon'." She nodded indulgently. "What did you need?"

  "Martha Mae Boyes. Where is she?"

  "Martha Mae doesn't buy anything. She's on a fixed income. We get a lot of solicitors this time of year. Are you selling windows or magazines?"

  "I'm not selling anything." The sleety drizzle was turning into a soak. The raindrops smacked the edge of the porch and splattered. I took a step closer to the door. "I work for a private investigator in Black Pine. Martha Mae's sister is my client. She's expecting me. I need to talk to Martha Mae about her grand-niece."

  "Martha Mae doesn't have a grand-niece." The lady began to shut her door. "I don't like the sound of this."

  "I'm worried about Martha Mae—"

  "Merry Christmas." The door shut.

  I faced a wreath made of tiny Woodstocks surrounding Snoopy. Snoopy wore a Santa suit. "Snoopy, do investigators get coffee breaks? Nash didn't teach me that yet. But I really need one."

  In answer, a rush of raw wind blew rain across the porch. I yelped and ran back to the car.

  * * *

  At the Waffle Hut, I ordered the Christmas special and a large coffee — extra hot — to go, then waited in line for the bathroom. The woman exiting the bathroom looked about as dry as I felt.

  "Y'all go in, but the floor's a mess," she said. "They need to mop. This weather is just awful, isn't it? Supposed to get worse as the day gets on. You better get your shopping done and get home."

  I nodded and smiled. Maybe that's where Martha Mae had gone. Shopping before the weather got worse. With hope in my heart that she'd be home soon, I entered the wet bathroom, skirted the muddy puddle, and hung my coat over the broken dryer. I dried off as best I could with paper towels and warm thoughts.

  Red velvet waffles. Extra hot coffee. I mentally added sausage to my order.

  Renata had taught me that you could make yourself happy from the outside in. Look good to feel good. Yanking off my soaked beanie, I shook it out in the sink and ruffled my wet hair, now darkened to auburn. I quickly parted and double-braided my hair.

  And looked like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm after a weekend bender.

  Wiping off my raccoon eyes, I touched up my mascara. My sea glass green eyes blinked back at me. Better. I sneezed. But I still looked cold, wet, and miserable.

  Vicki, my manager (and mother), taught me that actresses should never reveal their inner misery because nobody really gave a shit. You were hired for a job. Do the job and be miserable on your own time. This was speaking to a fourteen-year-old who didn't want to work. She'd found out her daddy was remarrying and wanted to move home to Black Pine. Have a normal life. With normal Christmases.

  But Mrs. Fowler needed my help. I wasn't fourteen. I was just wet and cold.

  I cocked a hip, fixed a teenage sneer, and mustered up enough snark until I saw the character from my most famous role, Julia Pinkerton, staring back at me. This Julia Pinkerton didn't look fourteen, but she did have spunk. "Get over yourself, girl. You've gotta bust this case. I'll make it happen."

  I never understood that line. The writers loved a catchphrase. But it worked.

  Maybe it would for this case as well.

  4 Cherry Tucker

  I woke to find a hand covering my eyes. My body jerked, but I didn't have the strength to buck. I opened my mouth to scream, but could only muster a low howl.

  The hand jerked off my eyes.

  "What in the hell was that?" I recognized the voice of my sister, Casey. "Is she dying?"

  My vision cleared. Grandpa Ed's woman, Pearl, loomed over me. She wore a concerned look and a Christmas sweatshirt. The sweatshirt had a pyramid of goats, each with an ornament hanging from its mouth. The kid on top held a star between its hooves.

  "She's burning up with fever. Bet it's the flu." Pearl held her hand away from her sweatshirt. "I need to wash up. Don't want t
o get my goats sick with this. Looks ugly."

  I moaned and rolled over, eyeing Casey's lean against the doorway. On a cold and wet December twenty-third, Casey wore a tank top, yoga pants, and flip-flops. In keeping with the season, the tank top read, "One of Santa's ho's." It was stretched over a rounded belly that didn't quite meet the top of the yoga pants.

  "I'm sorry you're feeling so bad," said Casey. "But I don't want the baby sick, so I'm not coming in your room."

  "You should go," I whimpered. "Let me die in peace."

  "Who dies from the flu?" She rolled her eyes. Casey wasn't much of a history or science buff, but I could tell she was concerned. Enough that she'd brought Pearl to check on me. The sort-of step-grandparent we never wanted. "I made you chicken soup."

  My parched mouth oozed drool, causing my stomach to roll. "No food talk. And stand still. You keep rockin', and it's making me nauseous."

  "I'm not moving. I'll leave the soup in the—"

  She backed into the kitchen until I returned from the bathroom. During that time, Pearl had stripped the bed, remade it, and placed an assortment of Gatorades on my nightstand.

  Red, blue, and green. Christmasy. My stomach took another roll.

  "Now then." Pearl placed a cool cloth on my head, tucked me into the hospital-cornered quilt, and squirted her hands with sanitizer. "What's all this about reporting a crime?"

  I stared at my Snug the Coonhound painting above my bed. The last few hours were hazy. Snug was no help. He continued to undulate. "Ma'am?"

  "Honey, you called the police. Beth Ann Simmons is filling in for Tamara and couldn't understand a word you said. Everyone knows you're sick, so they sent an ambulance over. Not an ambulance, really. That was needed with…well, never mind that. You don't need the details. The town is just a mess. And Line Creek has all their emergency people up on the interstate because of a pileup. Anyways, Sheriff Thompson sent June Peterson in her minivan in case you needed transport. But you didn't answer the door, so June went home. That's when she called Casey. Casey called your Grandpa Ed, and he sent me. Here we are."