Neslie's Christmas Crunch @page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } Neslie’s Christmas Crunch By Denise Dietz Copyright 2010 by Denise Dietz Cover Copyright 2010 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental. Also by Denise Dietz and Untreed Reads Publishing Footprints in the Butter http://www.untreedreads.com Neslie’s Christmas Crunch Denise Dietz Dr. Tampoline’s face looked like a bloodhound’s, assuming the bloodhound wore bifocals. Mournfully, he shook his head over the mess of medical records and x-rays spread across his desk. It didn’t much matter to me. I had already resigned myself to the bad news. Another headache was starting and I stared past Dr. Tampoline at the cut glass vase on his bookshelf. The pink rosebuds it held would bloat and bloom and die, but for now they looked like Munchkin parade bonnets. Speaking of Oz, where was the Good Witch when you really needed her? I wasn’t in Kansas anymore and the chance of a New York City tornado was zilch. Especially two days before Christmas. �śNeah Leslie, I’m so sorry,” Dr. Tampoline said, mulishly using the name my little sister hadn’t been able to pronounce. Neah means a biblical place and Leslie is the name of the heroine in Giant, my mother’s favorite movie. My birth certificate, a few stubborn high school teachers, some old theatre posters�"and Dr. Tampoline�"called me Neah Leslie. To everyone else, I’m Neslie. Even at my wedding the minister said, �śNeslie, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” Unfortunately, I said yes. I gave up on the roses and shifted my gaze to Doc’s bifocals. �śI can always check the yellow pages for Wizards,” I said. �śI’m fairly certain they inhabit the borough of Oz, just one Charon-piloted ferry ride from Brooklyn. Did you know that five rivers separate Brooklyn from Manhattan? The Acheron, the Cocytus, the Styx�"” �śNeah Leslie!” �śSorry.” I tried again. �śHow long do I have?” Blinking back tears, I turned toward the window. A pigeon strutted across the outside ledge. It looked mean and hungry, an Alfred Hitchcock pigeon. I glared at the pigeon through my pounding headache. �śNo,” I said, making an about-face, stiffening my hand and raising it like a school crossing guard. �śDon’t tell me.” �śPerhaps a second opinion,” Dr. Tampoline suggested. I shook my head. One opinion was more than enough, thank you very much. My mother had died of the same disease and I knew I’d go certifiably insane if I heard a second M.D. parrot Dr. Tampoline’s words. �śYou’ve been my doctor forever,” I told him. �śWhen I was a kid I called you Dr. Trampoline.” My attempt at a grin failed. �śWhat would I do with more opinions? Spread them out like Tarot cards?” His face was full of guilt and misery, so I smiled brightly�"and bravely, of course�"and said, �śGot a lollipop for a good girl, Doc?” �śIt’s miniature toys now, Neah Leslie. There’s too much sugar in lollipops.” Reaching beneath the rosebuds, he retrieved a fishbowl from the bookshelf. Blindly, I reached into the bowl and pulled out a tiny plastic rifle, and that’s when I had my first brilliant idea. Dr. Tampoline looked as if he wanted to hug me. I didn’t want to be hugged by someone who was disinfected and deodorized, whose teeth were probably plaque-free. My body was flawed, at least on the inside, so I bolted. The Playmate-of-the-month receptionist wasn’t behind her cubicle. Maybe she’d gone down the hallway to have her silicon checked at the plastic surgeon’s office. Anxious to leave, I thought: She’ll bill me and Jim will pay, probably with glee. It was noon-thirty. Outside, the sky spit cold rain. I felt like a middle-aged Goldilocks lost in a forest of skyscrapers. Fat, thin, tall, short and just-right shapes peopled the sidewalk like loose bits of colored glass viewed through a kaleidoscope. Especially the Christmas decorations. Red and green merged, so I focused on an anorexic Santa. Like Dr. Tampoline’s window-pigeon, he looked hungry. And mean. I managed three blocks before stopping to read the sign above a door. DANTE’S INFERNO. Perfect. Seated inside a dim cocktail lounge, I shed salty tears into a salt-rimmed margarita, stirred the slushy drink with Doc’s plastic rifle, and pictured a small pearl-handled .22. The gun hibernated inside my bureau’s lingerie drawer. Purchased during a rash of rapes and robberies, my husband had taught me how to ready-aim-fire. Good old Jim. Tall, dark, handsome, suave, and considerate. The credit card I used to pay the bar tab prompted my second brilliant idea. I hailed a cab and imagined breaking the news to Jim. My death�"let’s call it a journey to the quintessential Oz�"would avoid a messy divorce. Lately Jim had been Gaslighting me, trying to drive me crazy, except I was no Ingrid Bergman and he was no Charles Boyer. With a complete lack of originality, he switched the pictures on our walls. My purse mysteriously transferred itself from one surface to another. Christmas carols wafted through our heating ducts. Bing sang about a white Christmas, Judy told me to have a merry little Christmas, Burl lamented over a Frosty meltdown,and Aretha thought a winter wonderland was pretty cool. Only two weeks ago, before the holidays had shifted into high gear, our ducts had crooned �śThe Merry Widow Waltz.” Jim would be a merry widower, indeed. I knew about his �śyaw,”his Young Anonymous Woman. Jim didn’t think I’d notice the blonde hairs (lighter than mine) on his clothes, or the whispered consultations over the phone when Ms. Yaw called. Should I answer the phone, she’d pretend to solicit for a carpet-cleaning service. She sounded breathless, na�Żve, as if she was channeling Marilyn Monroe. Jim often left for �śextended business trips.” He was such a cliché. The cab deposited me at Tiffany’s. A glittering emerald tennis bracelet caught my avid gaze. Eight thousand dollars.I told the happy counter person I’d wear it home. Either way�"if my scheme failed, or if I suddenly keeled over�"Jim would be stuck with the credit card bill. Bloomingdale’s was my next stop. The pure white silk chemise with sequin overlay in an exquisite leaf and bead design cost a mere three hundred, plus sales tax. A perfume that smelled like sin cost $160 per ounce. I bought three ounces. A belted coat with roomy raglan sleeves�"a steal at $899.50. Would a sneaker addict prefer high heels inside her casket? Sure, why not? The gold metallic leather pumps were on sale, only ninety-five bucks. Jim liked leather. I hit the bank, withdrew my savings, and left twenty-five dollars in our joint checking account�"one dollar for each year of our marriage. Then, ignoring Grand Central Station, I waved a wad of twenties in a cab driver’s face while requesting that he drive me to Long Island. By the time I reached my Great Neck cul-de-sac, it had begun to snow. My Yorkshire terrier, Pudding, greeted me with a rump-wag. I tossed my purchases on the king-size bed in the master bedroom.The Matisse reproduction above its headboard was now a Picasso print. When had Jim switched the pictures? Before he left for work, shortly after I’d left for Dr. Tampoline’s office? Downstairs, a pitcher of spiked eggnog beckoned from my kitchen’s double-door, stainless-steel refrigerator. Three goblets later, I was feeling no pain. I remembered my mother’s last days. The pain would come. Inside the family room, my shaky legs gave way as my denim-clad butt sought Jim’s leather armchair. The Christmas tree mocked me. Jim and I had always picked it out together and decorated it together. Then he would plug in the lights and we’d drink eggnog and make love on the floor, under the tree. It was a tradition, for God’s sake. Until this year. I stood up, stumbled over to the tree, and fingered my favorite ornament, a miniature music box. Pressing a tiny button, I listened to an Alvin-Chipmunk-voice tell me I’d better not cry. My doorbell rang. It didn’t exactly harmonize with Alvin, so I turned off the music box ornament and answered the door. A young man stood there, the top half of his skull buried beneath a blue New York Giants stocking cap, his throat strangled by a green New York Jets muffler, his feet sheathed by a pair of black galoshes. He wore one of those disgustingly cute seasonal sweatshirts�"Santa, sleigh, reindeer, full moon�"rather than a jacket. A huge button leered FLORISTS DELIVER. As he handed me a dozen red roses, I reached for my purse and tipped him with a ten. �śThank you, ma’am,” he said, his face wreathed in a smile. �śMerry Christmas.” I hate being called ma’am. The flowers were from Jim. He had begun sending me roses a couple of months ago, following one of his extended business trips. I thrust thorny stems into a vase and read the card: �śLove always, Jim.” That was new. Love always? Had Dr. Tampoline told him about my prognosis? Who would mourn my demise? Friends. And my sister, Charlene. Ten years my junior, Charlene looks younger than thirty-five, as if the aging process had stopped dead, so to speak, at twenty-nine. Charlene collects an alimony check every month and lives alone. No kids. No pets. I refilled my goblet and sat on the family room’s white-leather couch. I toasted the roses, then my wedding photo. Granted, twenty-five years of marriage had blunted the excitement, but didn’t compatibility count? Didn’t giving up a promising acting career count? I’d wined and dined Jim’s clients so many times, I was arguably a more knowledgeable stockbroker than he. On the other hand, his yaw offered youth and a size D cup. Did the Victoria’s Secret bra still lay hidden where I’d found it, buried inside Jim’s tux pocket? A tear trickled as I glanced across the room into an octagonal mirror. Funny. My illness had produced an almost feverish glow. In fact, I looked healthier today than I had two months ago, or even two weeks ago, when Jim had insisted I visit Dr. Tampoline. �śLet’s find out why you keep getting those damn headaches,” Jim had said, his voice oozing sympathy, his gaze straying toward the Picasso that hung above our pretentious Cornshuck Seat. Poor Dr. Tampoline. He was into announcements of good cheer, not pending doom. He’d rather hand out lollipops than sugar-free plastic toys. My head pounded and my stomach felt like a roller coaster, but the eggnog had loosened me up, so Itapped out the number for Jim’s brokerage firm. �śHe’s giving a personal presentation right now,” said Jennifer, the firm’s receptionist. Yeah, right, I thought. Personally adjusting Ms. Yaw’s size D portfolio. The phone company’s rep was polite. And helpful. When I complained about the charges for several Great Neck to Manhattan calls, she gave me the name of Jim’s yaw. My Manhattan directory gave me her address. �śCherry Ames” didn’t use initials. Stupid yaw. * * * Stupid yaw, indeed! After knocking and waiting and knocking again, I discovered that her door wasn’t locked. Tentatively, I entered. A white Persian cat barely dented a tassel-cushioned couch. The cat’s green jeweled collar reminded me of my new tennis bracelet. Cherry’s coffee table hinted that its owner possessed a multifaceted, or split, personality. Next to a Wall Street Journal was a supermarket tabloid, a Harlequin paperback, a Soap Opera Digest, a vinyl purse, a leather wallet, and a super-sized Ronald McDonald paper cup. The cup held a bouquet of yellow roses whose color matched Ronald McD’s gay outfit. I couldn’t help noticing that the card, stuck in among the stems, read: �śTo C. Love always, Jim.” On my left, next to a fairly large flat-screen TV, a small, fake Christmas tree looked as if it had been bought, already decorated, at a discount drug store. Someone had turned the TV to my sister Charlene’s favorite show, Sesame Street, and Oscar the Grouch sang �śThe Christmas Song,” also known as �śChestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” Against one living room wall, an étagère held a collection of miniature ballerinas. They seemed to twirl, galvanized by the green grouch. Closing my eyes, I felt another excruciating headache explode inside my head. Damn! Not now! To my right was the kitchen, clean as the proverbial whistle, except for a sack of groceries and one of those disgustingly cute Christmas pet stockings. I had bought one for Pudding, filled with dog goodies. Glancing toward the aloof, sedentary white Persian, I surmised that the stocking on the kitchen table was filled with cat goodies. In fact, I could have sworn I smelled a rubber rat. I drew my gun from the depths of my purse and walked over to the bedroom door and inched it open. I listened for the squeak of bedsprings, but all I heard was Big Bird blaring �śHark the Herald Angels Sing.” Cherry’s bedroom reeked of potpourri. A dozen fragrant sachets decorated her red, heart-shaped headboard. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Teddy bears had spilled from the bed to the carpet. Their glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling, the sachet packets, and my dead-to-the-world husband, who lay under a thick quilt. I curled my finger around the gun’s trigger. My head pounded and my hand shook and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill, even if Jim was the worst sleaze alive. Alive! Holy shit! Jim was a sound sleeper, so Oscar the Grouch and Big Bird wouldn’t have disturbed him. But why didn’t he snore? Jim always snored. His snoring drove me crazy. Next to the bed was Jim’s leather briefcase, full to bursting, but I’d seen enough cop shows to know I shouldn’t touch it. * * * Inside the police precinct, the heat had been turned up to compensate for the cold outside. Plastic-coated Comets, Blitzens and Rudolphs vied for dominance amidst the plethora of Christmas cards, strung across every ceiling baseboard. Sergeant Marcus Leonard was skeptically sympathetic. Leaning forward in his chair, he allowed an icy breeze from the open window to caress his thinning hair and the white shirt that stuck to his back and underarms in wet, aromatic patches. The sergeant’s cluttered desk boasted one dead rose, its stem rising from a Diet Pepsi can. Noting my gaze, his face turned ruddy. �śBirthday last week,” he said. �śDon’t you hate it when that happens?” �śExcuse me?” �śWhen your birthday falls so close to Christmas,” he said, glaring at me as if it was my fault. Since my mother had been smart enough to squeeze me out on Labor Day, I merely nodded, generating yet another headache. Then, after repeating my story twice, I said, �śThe cops checked my gun. It wasn’t fired.” �śYour husband was stabbed to death.” Obviously a crime of passion, I thought dispassionately. �śThe cops searched me,” I said. �śThey didn’t find a knife.” �śYou could’ve hidden it before we arrived.” �śWhere? Inside a potpourri sachet? By the way, what happened to the cat? I do hope someone took care of it.” �śWhat cat?” �śA white Persian with a green-jeweled collar. It was on the couch when I got there, gone when I left. I suppose it could have hidden behind the couch, or under the couch, but the pet stocking was gone, too.” My rapidly developing migraine blotted out cats, tasseled couch cushions, and all other visions that danced in my head. �śPlease, Sergeant, either arrest me or let me go home. I don’t feel very well.” �śIf you’re planning to be sick,” he said, �śthere’s a bathroom across the hall. Your taxes paid for my new carpeting.” I swallowed convulsively and began my third recitation. By the time my attorney arrived, I had used the bathroom across the hall twice and ruined Sergeant Leonard’s new carpet once. Despite the snow that now crusted the streets, my attorney drove me home. �śThey can’t pin this on you, Neslie,” she said. �śIf intent to kill without following through was a crime, they’d have to arrest every wife and mistress in the Big Apple.” Mistress! Could Cherry Ames be Jim’s murderer? Was he planning to trade her in for an even younger model, one who collected Barbie dolls, rather than ballerinas? Had the D-cup belonged to another yaw? Who else would have a motive? Three days ago I’d heard Jim arguing over the phone with Howard, his brokerage firm partner. I had picked up the extension, but since Howard didn’t possess a Marilyn voice box, I hadn’t listened in on the conversation. My attorney, who looks like Ally McBeal on steroids, pulled into my driveway and cell-phoned my sister, who said she’d come right over. I waved goodbye to Ally, unlocked the front door, smelled roses, and headed for the stairs. Entering my bedroom, I glanced above the headboard. The Picasso print was now a Matisse. Who had switched them back? Not Jim. He had been bivouacked inside his teddy-bear-infested love nest, getting himself killed. * * * I dropped a soggy tissue onto my bedspread. �śWhat a beautiful tennis bracelet,” Charlene said, her gaze drawn to the tiny emeralds that glittered in the lamplight. �śI love green stones.” �śI’ll leave it to you in my will,” I said, my voice muffled by sobs. Damn, I’d have to make a will soon. Would my sister take Pudding? No way. She hated being chained to another living soul, which had probably led to her divorce. �śJim isn’t worth your tears, Neslie. He was a�Ś” Here, Charlene let loose with a string of bloody oaths that ended with the word �śbastard.” I reached for another tissue, knocking my raglan-sleeved coat to the floor. Retrieving the coat and my new casket dress, Charlene hung them in the closet. �śGet some sleep,” she said, weaving her fingers through her ash-blonde hair. �śHow can I sleep? I might dream. I might die.” �śI’ll phone Dr. Tampoline, sweetie. You need a sedative.” �śNo, I’ll do it,” I said, thinking I’d ask Doc about his pink rosebuds. Who’d sent them? Who were they for? After dabbing at my swollen eyes and blowing my nose, I reached for the bedside phone. The doctor’s service answered on the third ring. �śHe’s out of town,” said a professional voice, marred only by the crackle of teeth grinding gum. �śDr. Tampoline didn’t say anything about leaving when I saw him this morning.” �śYou couldn’t have seen him this morning, ma’am. He’s been at a convention in Dallas for the last two days.” �śWhat did you say?” I felt all the color drain from my face. �śI said Dr. Tampoline’s in Dallas.” �śWhy are you lying? I saw him this morning, in his office.” �śYes, ma’am,” she said, humoring me. Then, helpfully, �śHis associate, Dr. Maxwell Gordon, is available for emergencies.” �śI don’t want Dr. Maxwell Gor�"” Charlene grabbed the phone. Approximately ninety minutes later, Dr. Maxwell Gordon dropped an empty vial into my wastepaper basket. �śYou’ll sleep through the night, Neah Leslie,” he said. �śDon’t wanna sleep,” I muttered, already feeling the effects of the sedative. �śI could die.” Dr. Gordon possessed an Olympic athlete’s physique. �śWhy would you think that?” he asked, sitting on the edge of my bed. Charlene was downstairs, boiling a dead chicken. I had an irrepressible urge to stroke the doctor’s jean-clad thighs. Instead, I tried to explain. �śDr. Tampoline told me I’m dying.” �śOf what, Neah Leslie? I punched up your records on the computer before I drove here.” �śPlease call me Neslie.” My eyelids felt heavy. �śI’m not dyin’?” �śHardly. You saw Dr. Tampoline two weeks ago. He ran some tests and�"” �śFound a fatal disease.” �śNot even close. He found that your headaches were caused by an allergy. Now he’s running more tests, trying to discover the cause of�"” �śNo!” It was hard to think straight. �śWere you at Dr. Tampoline’s office today?” �śIt’s my office, too. I’m his associate. Yes, I was there.” �śDidn’t see you or nurse or receptionist. . .no one but Dr. Tampoline. . .noon.” My words tasted fuzzy. Dr. Gordon caressed my wrist. Nope, wrong, he took my pulse. �śOur receptionist, Cherry Harwood, doubles as our nurse,” he said, his voice sounding as though it came from inside a tunnel. �śI went to lunch around eleven-thirty, locked up the office, and routed calls to my service. Cherry left at the same time. Dr. Tampoline is in Dallas, Neslie.” �śUh-huh.” I squeezed my eyes shut, but my mind raced. Cherry Harwood. Cherry Ames. The name Cherry Ames sounded vaguely familiar. Cherry and Cherry. There couldn’t be two Cherries. She had to be Jim’s missing yaw. * * * I slept until eleven. Charlene had dumped the morning newspapers inside my bedroom. They all carried stories about Jim’s untimely demise. Two hinted that I might be the killer. I decided Cherry wouldn’t return to her apartment. Would she be at the office, believing her fictitious last name provided anonymity? Dr. Tampoline’s service told me he’d return from Dallas this afternoon. A good friend broke the rules and informed me that the good doctor had indeed purchased an airline ticket. Furthermore, he had made his flight at the designated time and was due back today at three-forty-seven. I was beginning to feel nuts again. Still clutching the bedroom extension, I called Jim’s brokerage firm. His partner wasn’t in. Had Howard killed my sleazy husband and flown the proverbial coop? The kitchen smelled of potatoes. Narrowly avoiding Pudding, Charlene fed me hot herbal tea and cold vichyssoise. Apparently, she had decided to cook dead spuds rather than a dead chicken. �śGet your butt back into bed,” she said. �śI can’t. I’ve got to find out who killed Jim.” �śWhy? So you can pin a medal on the murderer?” �śSo they can’t pin the dirty deed on me. The wife is always the number one suspect, or at least �Śa person of interest,’ and I’ve already spent a portion of Jim’s life insurance payoff at Bloomies and Tiffany’s, which means I could have known, or sort of known, that he was going to die.” Noting my sister’s puzzled gaze, I heaved a deep sigh. �śLong story. Am I going crazy, Charlene?” �śYou were crazy to marry Jim.” �śIt seemed like a good idea at the time. Jim’s been trying to Gaslight me.” She swallowed a spoonful of potato soup. �śWhy would he do that?” �śI don’t know. Do you think I’m imagining things?” �śOf course not.” �śYes, you do.” I heard my voice teeter on the edge of hysteria. �śJim’s been having an affair with a potpourri addict named Cherry, Dr. Tampoline’s nurse.” I ran to my purse, retrieved a small tape recorder, flicked its switch, and lilting music from �śThe Merry Widow Waltz” filled my kitchen. Pudding howled, off-key. �śI found this in Cherry’s apartment. Inside Jim’s briefcase, which I shouldn’t have touched, but did, and now my fingerprints are all over it. Jim’s been using this tape to drive me crazy.” �śPut the recorder back in your purse,” she said, her fingers pony-tailing her long flaxen hair. �śSnowplows have cleared the streets. After you finish your soup and tea, we’ll visit Dr. Tampoline’s office. Maybe Cherry’s there, playing nurse.” Oh my gosh! Cherry Ames, fictional nurse. That’s why the name sounded so familiar. As a kid, I had read Cherry Ames books, along with Nancy Drew, the Hardy boys, and Five Little Peppers. * * * Dr. Maxwell Gordon bustled about his busy waiting room like an animated Mary Poppins carousel horse. An assortment of Sleepys, Grumpys and Sneezys glared at him. From hidden speakers, Otis Redding’s �śMerry Christmas Baby” competed with an eighth dwarf, Coughy. Cherry Ames, also known as Cherry Harwood, was MIA. �śHow are you feeling today, Neslie?” Dr. Gordon’s voice suggested that my illness, on a scale of one to ten, hovered around zero. His welcoming smile, however, hovered around ten. �śDo you need a prescription for tranquilizers?” �śNo, but I think you do.” I gestured toward the empty receptionist’s cubicle. Next to a clipboard, a couple of dejected poinsettias hinted that Manhattan was suffering from a major drought. �śDo you have time to answer one question?” �śDr. Tampoline is due back today. His plane lands at three-forty-seven.” �śThat wasn’t my question. Can you describe your nurse, Cherry Harwood?” �śAre you kidding? Look at this waiting room. She’s inconsiderate, thoughtless, neglectful�"” �śI meant physically.” He gave me a quizzical stare. �śShe’s your height, blonde, thick ankles.” �śBusty?” �śI beg your pardon?” �śDoes she have large breasts? And don’t tell me you’ve never noticed.” �śShe fills a sweater.” �śWould you say she wears a size D cup?” �śWhat size do you wear?” he asked, as Otis Redding finished caroling. �śThirty-four B. That’s smaller,” I said, just in case he’d never read a bra tag. �śThen I’d say �ŚD’ was close. Any other questions?” �śAre you married?” �śNo. I’ve been searching for the perfect thirty-four B.” I turned at the waiting room door. �śDoes Cherry have an unusual voice, Dr. Gordon? Breathy? Little girlish?” �śYes. She sounds like Marilyn Monroe.” He gave me a tired grin. �śDo you happen to know what size brassiere Marilyn wore?” The waiting room was silent, breathless. Even Coughy had stopped spraying everyone with his misty spittle. �śI don’t believe Marilyn wore a bra,” I said. It was one of my better exit lines. Mainly because, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a headache. * * * Charlene and I decided to meet Dr. Tampoline’s plane. Leaving her car in short-term parking, we scanned the faces of the Dallas arrivals, clustered around the baggage trolley. No Dr. Tampoline. However, one man looked a tad familiar, probably because I had known him for twenty-five years. �śHi, Howard,” I said. Charlene and I escorted my husband’s business partner to a lounge and let him order a double martini. While he withdrew the olive, I withdrew a used ticket from his pocket. The name on the ticket was Dr. Tampoline’s. I stared at Howard’s face�"creased, mournful, his eyes screened by a pair of bifocals. Yes, he could pass for Dr. Tampoline, ifhe had the right I.D. But why would Dr. Tampoline give Howard his I.D.? �śWhere’s Dr. Tampoline, Howard?” �śI don’t know.” He glanced at his watch as if he had another plane to catch. �śYes, you do.” Charlene ordered a Bloody Mary while I told Howard about Jim’s demise. Howard’s face turned as colorless as his martini. Then it turned olive-green. Afraid he might bolt for the bathroom, or throw up between his knees, I said, �śWhere’s Dr. Tampoline? Tell me now, or I’ll summon Security and let them in on your identity scam.” �śI would guess he’s at my office,” Howard mumbled. �śAnd what would he be doing there?” �śTrying to find evidence.” �śWhat kind of evidence, Howard?” His face was now the color of the lime that garnished my sister’s Bloody Mary. After yesterday’s eggnog, I had vowed I’d never drink again. But I’d also vowed to love, honor, and cherish Jim�Śuntil I withdrew the plastic rifle from Dr. Tampoline’s fishbowl. Listening to Howard, I gulped down his double martini. * * * The brokerage firm’s receptionist was so surprised to see me, she stopped humming �śRudolph The Red Nose Reindeer.” �śI’m sorry for your loss,” she said, manufacturing tears. She nodded toward the corner of her desk, where she’d tied a black ribbon around a slim vase. The vase held rose buds, chrysanthemums and holly. �śI hate to be rude, Neslie, but I was just about to leave. I need to do some last-minute Christmas shopping.” �śThat’s okay, Jennifer. Is anyone else here?” �śNot unless they snuck inside while I was going potty down the hall.” Impatiently, I waited while Jennifer hid her hair beneath an elf’s stocking cap and changed into a pair of those disgustingly cute ankle-boots, the kind with little red and green Christmas bells on the ends of their laces. Then, entering Howard’s office, I felt Charlene’s huff heat the back of my neck. Her huff echoed mine. The office was a mess. Open file drawers spilled their contents. Howard’s antique, roll-top desk looked like a Tim Burton dental patient with mouth agape. Computer paper cascaded across the ultramarine carpet; choppy white waves in an angry sea. I heard a toilet flush behind the closed door of Howard’s private bathroom. Someone had obviously �śsnuck” past Jennifer. Handing my purse to Charlene, I nodded toward a conference room, adjacent to Howard’s office. She nodded back, entered, and left the door slightly ajar. Sink water gurgled, just before Dr. Tampoline appeared, zipping his fly. I waved an imaginary carrot and said, �śWhat’s up, Doc?” He gasped like a grounded trout. �śI met your plane,” I said, �śbut you weren’t on it.” �śYou shouldn’t be traipsing through crowded airports, Neah Leslie,” he said, regaining his composure. �śNot in your condition.” He shook his head mournfully. �śFor one thing, your immune system�"” �śKnock it off! I have a feeling I might outlive you. Did you find the file?” �śNo.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. �śIt must have been in Jim’s office, and the police confiscated all his records. I’ll probably suffer a small scandal, pay a hefty fine, but I’ll be considered an innocent victim.” �śInnocent? You made a fortune with Jim’s stock scam. I met Howard at the airport. He’s not very good under pressure, Doc. Pressure! Holy shit! Your game plan was to make me believe I was terminally ill and drive me insane with the news. But why?” �śJim figured the threat of your mother’s illness would be the last straw, that you’d go into a deep depression.” I pictured yesterday’s roses and my dearly departed husband’s card�"love always�"and any lingering trace of sorrow I might have felt disappeared. �śThat doesn’t make any sense, Dr. Tampoline. Why didn’t Jim simply ask for a divorce?” �śYour mother’s trust fund. If you’re dead, or incapacitated, the entire trust reverts to Jim. Your mother liked Jim. She didn’t trust Charlene.” I thought I heard an indignant wheeze from the conference room, so I quickly said, �śI liked Jim, too. Before Toto stripped away the curtain.” �śJim’s been getting inside information about new contracts and mergers. As you know, it’s against the law to release the findings ahead of time. But he told me and a few other friends. We’d buy or sell the stock and give Jim a piece of the action. Obviously, he couldn’t buy the stock himself. Then, when his cut didn’t�Śshall we say cut the mustard?�Śhe began blackmailing me. I didn’t want to play his dirty trick on you, I swear, but Jim said he had records of our illegal transactions.” �śIf those transactions came to light, Jim would go down with the proverbial ship.” �śHe was desperate, deeply in debt.” �śThat’s ridiculous. We own a beautiful house in an exclusive neighborhood. We even have a Kindle, an iPod and TiVo!” �śYou’ve always lived in such a cocoon, Neah Leslie. Jim knew you wouldn’t get a second opinion when I pronounced your death sentence. But did you know that Jim owns a yacht? Or that he visited Cannes for the film festival?” I heard the echo of Dr. Maxwell Gordon’s voice: She’s inconsiderate, thoughtless, neglectful. Surely blonde-bombshell Cherry had visited Cannes with Jim. Why would a couple of busy doctors keep a nurse who was gone more often than not? Dr. Gordon, a new associate, probably had little say in the matter. But Dr. Tampoline�" �śYou’ve been having an affair with her, too,” I said. �śWho?” �śCherry. Isn’t that the real reason you got rid of Jim?” �śWhat are you talking about?” My head pounded, trumpeting the start of a headache. In fact, my headache had begun before I’d entered Howard’s office. �śYou killed Jim. You must have, unless it was Cherry, and somehow I can’t picture a woman who collects ballerinas and teddy bears wielding a knife.” Dr. Tampoline paced up and down Howard’s office, leaving shoe prints on top of the computer paper. At long last he halted and puffed up his chest like a bantam cock. �śCherry was my lover, not Jim’s,” he said, his voice vacillating between a whine and a boast. �śSometimes Jim used the apartment for his assignations, or he’d call me there to discuss business.” �śHere’s my theory, Doc. You found out about Cherry and Jim, killed Jim, then drove to my house and switched the pictures above my bed, finishing the job Jim had begun, making me believe I was crazy.” �śYou are crazy.” �śThe police know the killer used a scalpel,” I fibbed. �śNo, my dear. The way the chest laceration was angled, it could have been any small, sharp knife.” �śHow’d you know the chest wound was angled?” �śThe newspapers.” �śI read the morning papers. They didn’t mention a small sharp knife, or where the injury occurred. Only the killer would know that.” �śLet’s just call it a lucky guess.” His face clouded then contorted. �śYou’re right about one thing. Jim was diddling my mistress.” Diddling? I had a sudden thought. �śOh my God! You killed Cherry. The roses in your office were for her. You slashed Jim and Cherry. Why did you leave Jim in her apartment?” Silence. �śWant to hear my lucky guess, Doc? You’re an old man. After you carried Cherry to your car, you didn’t have the strength to carry Jim. You dumped Cherry’s body�Śsomewhere. You figured the police would blame Jim’s death on me. Or Howard, who will tell the cops he flew to Dallas. But the airlines have your name, your alibi. Wait a sec. Howard has your driver’s license.” Doc’s body language confirmed my lucky guess, but he didn’t respond. I had hoped he’d confess. Wasn’t confessing a fundamental ploy of TV cop shows and stock detective stories? I reminded myself that stock detective story confessions almost always sounded clichéd and implausible, while this was real life. �śYou told Howard to mail your license back immediately upon his return,” I continued, still thinking out loud, still plucking my words from thin air. Doc shrugged. Then to my surprise he smiled. �śVery good, Neah Leslie,” he said. I quirked an eyebrow. This time his cocky chest looked like a miniature hot-air balloon. �śI paid Howard to attend the conference and gave him a round-trip ticket to Mexico for a well-earned Christmas vacation. He should be on his way there right now. But if you go to the police with your ridiculous theory, it’s your word against mine, and I’d guess your friends, not to mention your sister, will substantiate your recent trend toward insanity.” �śDr. Gordon knows I’m not insane.” �śDoes he? Maxwell joined my practice six months ago. I have records that date back to your mother’s death, when you actually did go a little crazy.” A little crazy? I had sunk into a deep depression, surely the reason why Jim had initiated his nefarious scheme. �śWe’ll see,” I said. Not the greatest exit line. In fact, I sounded bratty, and Dr. Tampoline’s wheezy laugh followed me through the doorway. Charlene had used a conference room exit to �śgo potty down the hall.” But first she’d captured Dr. Tampoline’s words on the merry-widow-waltz tape. And while it wasn’t a full-boogie confession, it could be deemed a tad incriminating, especially when Sergeant Leonard heard Doc’s remarks about the knife, which, in my opinion, was a smoking gun. Our next stop was Leonard’s steam-cleaned carpet. * * * I wasn’t hungry but my sister had cooked up a sumptuous dinner. Pudding lay at my feet, gulping down the tidbits I surreptitiously fed him. �śWould you do the dishes?” Charlene stood, stretched and yawned. Then she put on her coat and a pair of stretchy black leather gloves. �śI really must go home, check my phone messages and feed my cat.” �śI didn’t know you had a cat.” �śI adopted her last month. God, I’m tired.” �śMe, too. I can’t thank you enough for all your help, Charlene.” �śThat’s what sisters are for, Neslie.” �śThere’s still one thing I don’t understand. If Dr. Tampoline was diligently dumping Cherry’s body, he couldn’t have switched my bedroom pictures. Unless he stopped here on the way. I suppose that’s possible�"damn! My new bracelet, my Bloomies stuff. I wanted to look nice in my casket and have Jim foot the bill. If I’m not due to die, I’d better make some returns.” �śWhy not keep everything? You never know when you’ll need it.” That sounded a tad cryptic, but before I could respond the doorbell rang. A florist’s truck squatted at my curb and the kid from yesterday handed me red roses. Their moist buds were illuminated by my porch light. I reached for my purse, which I had left on the vestibule table. It wasn’t there. �śI’ll tip him,” Charlene said. �śI’m sure my purse was on that table,” I said, thrusting the roses beneath my armpits, extracting the card and reading the words out loud. �śLove always, Jim.” I felt my throat constrict, just before I ran down the path toward the delivery truck. �śWait! Stop! Who ordered these flowers?” The kid turned around. �śWhoever signed the card, ma’am.” �śIt’s not signed, it’s printed. When were the roses ordered? Yesterday?” �śNo way. We guarantee local delivery within three hours.” �śBut they could have been ordered yesterday, scheduled for delivery tonight,” I said, thinking out loud. �śWho placed the order?” I asked somewhat desperately, knowing the delivery kid wouldn’t have a clue. �śI don’t have a clue, ma’am.” I raced back up the path and brushed past Charlene. Still anchoring the roses under my arm, I called the number printed at the top of the card and, somewhat hysterically, persuaded the manager to check the receipt. �śThe order was phoned in an hour ago,” he said. �śDid you take the order? Which credit card did he use?” �śI didn’t take the order. American Express.” �śWould you read me the card’s numbers?” �śI’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am.” �śWhat if I gave you the numbers? You could verify�Ś” I swallowed the rest of my words. My purse was missing, which meant my credit card was missing. Then I simply dropped the receiver as the family room spun round and round, not unlike Cherry’s ballerinas. Maybe I really was insane. I heard music. Christmas music. Judy Garland. Staring at Charlene, I said, �śTurn off the music.” She said, �śWhat music?” The long-stemmed roses dangled down my side, a third thorny arm, and I couldn’t breathe. Stumbling toward the front door, I reached for the knob. I needed fresh air. My head thumped and soon it would explode. �śNeslie, stop it!” Charlene blocked the exit. �śWhat the hell are you doing?” �śGoing crazy,” I said. �śThe police have Jim’s tape recorder, but I hear music. Jim’s dead, but he switched the pictures and called the florist and�"oh, God, headache. Migraine. Need sedative. Need Dr. Tampoline. No, Dr. Gordon.” �śYou don’t need a doctor, sweetie. I have tranquilizers. They’ll help you sleep and you’ll feel much better tomorrow.” Reaching into her coat pocket, Charlene pulled out a container filled with pills. �śMy head hurts. Oh, God, I want peace.” �śYes. Peace. Take the tranquilizers, Neslie.” �śHow many?” �śTwo, three, ten, all of them, however many bring you peace.” �śI want to give you a present, Charlene. You’ve been so great. How about my new emerald bracelet? You said you loved green stones.” Suddenly the world stopped spinning as a thought, a coherent thought, clicked into place. At the same time, Judy stopped singing. �śMaybe another time,” Charlene said, pressing the pill container against my palm. �śWhy don’t you wash these down with our leftover dinner wine? I’ve got to get going, sweetie.” �śYes, I know. To feed your cat. Your white Persian cat. Does she have a collar, Charlene? A jeweled collar that looks like my emerald bracelet?” �śWhat are you talking about?” �śI’ve met your cat, sweetie. She was in Cherry’s apartment. Actually, Dr. Tampoline’s apartment, listed in the phone directory under Cherry’s fictitious name because Dr. Tampoline did his illegal business transactions there. But Dr. Tampoline said he loaned the apartment to Jim for assignations. I’ll bet my emerald bracelet the yellow roses were for you, Charlene. Cherry arrived during her lunch break, while you were gone, shopping for groceries, and Jim couldn’t resist her charms. Dr. Tampoline found them and killed them. You came back, just before I got there. When I knocked, you hid inside the front-hall closet. While I visited Cherry’s bedroom, you snatched up the pet stocking, grabbed your cat, and fled. I missed a clue, thanks to my damn migraine. Actually, two clues. I naturally assumed that anyone who collects teddy bears would turn the TV to Sesame Street, but that’s always been your thing, your favorite show.” She shrugged. �śAnd clue number two?” �śIf the cat was Cherry’s, it would have clawed the tassels on her couch cushions. And her potpourri sachets. I don’t know why you had your cat with you, Charlene, but my educated guess is that you’d scheduled an appointment for one of those disgustingly cute pet-with-Santa photos.” I glanced at my wall, at the framed photo of Pudding perched on Santa’s lap. From the heating ducts, I heard Barbra Streisand singing Gounod’s �śAve Maria.” �śOh my God! You’ve got a tape recorder, too!” I walked into the family room and hung up the phone. �śYou’re the one who switched my pictures and hid my stuff. You and Jim planned it together. The deal was suicide, not insanity. That way Jim could inherit my trust fund, pay off his debts, and squire you around the world on his yacht. Obviously, you didn’t know he was �Śsquiring’ another blonde.” Briefly, I wondered why Charlene had concocted her latest plan�Śmore roses�Śto drive me nuts. But the answer was obvious. She knew I had no will. With Jim dead, and me dead, she would inherit my trust fund. By default. My fault. Despite my pounding headache, I laughed. �śWhat’s so damn funny, Neslie?” �śSuddenly everyone’s name starts with a �ŚC’ and everyone’s big-breasted. The bra I found was yours, but Cherry called my house. You’d never do that because I’d recognize your voice. Did it ever occur to you that once Jim got his hands on my trust fund, he’d leave you flat?” Her nostrils flared. �śOf course it did. But he knew I’d kill�Ś” She stopped short. �śWho really killed Jim, Charlene? Did you find out about Cherry and finish what the good doctor started? Did you put a pillow over Jim’s face? Or one of Cherry’s teddy bears? I suppose the cops could check the bears for DNA.” I held up my hand like a school crossing guard, dimly realizing I’d made the identical gesture inside Dr. Tampoline’s office, after he had pronounced my death sentence, the bastard. �śNever mind,” I said. �śDon’t tell me. Go home and feed your cat. I’ll be drafting a will, leaving everything to Pudding. Then I’ll draft codicils, leaving everything to subsequent Yorkshire Terriers. And don’t even think about killing them off, you conniving witch, because then my trust fund would revert to the SPCA.” I envisioned Dr. Gordon, who preferred a 34-B bra. �śMeanwhile, I might play the very merry widow.” I watched my sister stomp outside, inhale the frosty night air, start her car, drive away. Then I thrust the roses into an empty milk carton. My head still throbbed, so I called Dr. Maxwell Gordon’s service. He got back to me immediately. �śI’ll be there in five minutes,” he said. �śFive minutes? Good grief, Dr. Gordon, where are you calling from?” �śMy cell phone. I was on my way to your house. And it’s Max.” Alvin and cohorts were trilling naughty and nice from the Christmas tree when I met Max at the front door. It had begun to snow again, thick heavy flakes, and I had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to leave tonight. �śThe lab called with your test results,” he said. �śBut your phone was busy and I didn’t want to wait until next week.” The phone hadn’t been busy. The phone had been dangling. Or as Doc would say, diddling. I swallowed a giggle. Delayed reaction. Suddenly, Max’s words sank in. �śNext week?” I echoed. �śWhat about tomorrow?” �śTomorrow’s Christmas. In fact, the office will be closed until December twenty-seventh, with emergency calls routed to Dr. Tampoline.” I didn’t bother to tell him that by now Dr. Tampoline was incarcerated. Instead, I nestled against his stalwart chest and said, �śDid the lab find out what’s causing my headaches?” �śYes,” Max said. �śYou’re allergic to roses.” Table of Contents Copyright Neslie's Christmas Crunch\