Miracle and Other Christmas Stories

  Unless James could be made to look like the murderer. Because murderers could not inherit.

  What if Heidi had put the sleeping pills into Lord Alastair’s cocoa before she brought it up to the nursery, and had hidden the bottle in James’s bureau? What if D’Artagnan had only pretended to lose his gloves so that Lady Charlotte would give him her keys? What if he and Heidi had gone up to the nursery while everyone was playing Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral, strangled Lord Alastair in his sleep, and then thrown the furniture about?

  But that was impossible. They were animals, as James said. Animals who were capable of lying, cheating, deceiving. Capable of planning and executing. Executing.

  What if D’Artagnan had really twisted James’s wrist, so that he would accuse him, so that he’d say the apes were dangerous, and it would look as if he were trying to frame them?

  No, it was too complicated. Even if they were capable of higher-level thinking, there was a huge difference between solving arithmetic problems and planning a murder.

  Especially a murder that could fool Touffét, I thought, looking across the compartment at him. He was rummaging through his bag, looking for his mystery novel.

  They could never have come up with a murder like that on their own. And Touffét’s explanation of James’s motive made perfect sense. But if James had committed the murder, why hadn’t he washed the cocoa out of the cup? Why hadn’t he hidden the key and the gloves in the pantry, as Touffét had said he intended to do? He’d had plenty of time after we went to our rooms. Why hadn’t he dumped the sleeping tablets down the sink?

  “Bridlings,” Touffét said, “what have you done with my book?”

  I found The Murders in the Rue Morgue for him.

  “No, no,” he said. “Not that one. I do not wish to think anymore of primates.” He handed it back to me.

  I stared at it. What if they hadn’t had to plan the murder? What if they had only had to copy someone else’s plan? “Monkey see, monkey do,” I murmured.

  “What?” Touffét said, rummaging irritably through his bag. “What did you say?”

  “Touffét,” I said earnestly, “do you remember The Case of the Cat’s Paw?”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, looking pleased. “The little chimpanzee’s favorite book. A most satisfying case.”

  “The husband did it,” I said.

  “And confessed when I confronted him,” he said, looking annoyed. “You, as I recall, thought the village doctor did it.”

  Yes, I had thought the village doctor did it. Because the husband had made it look as though he had been framed by the doctor, so that suspicion no longer rested on him.

  And The Case of the Cat’s Paw was Heidi’s favorite book. What if she and D’Artagnan had simply copied the murder in the book?

  But Touffét had solved The Case of the Cat’s Paw. How could they have been sure he would not solve this one?

  “You were particularly obtuse on that case,” Touffét said. “That is because you see only the facade.”

  “In spite of all the evidence of their intelligence,” Lady Charlotte had said, “people persist in seeing them as animals.”

  As animals. Who couldn’t possibly have committed a murder.

  But Heidi could read. And D’Artagnan had scored 95 on IQ tests. And they would have done anything for Lady Charlotte. Anything.

  “Touffét,” I said. “I’ve been thinking—”

  “Ah, but that is just the problem. You do not think. You look only at the surface. Never what lies below it.”

  Or behind it, I thought. To the monkey, putting the cat’s paw in the fire.

  Unless I told Touffét, James would be convicted of murder. “Useless” Eustis would never discover the truth on his own, and even if he did, he wouldn’t dare to contradict Touffét, who had saved his reputation.

  “Touffét,” I said.

  “That is why I am the great detective, and you are only the scribe,” Touffét said. “Because you see only the facade. That is why I do not listen to you when you tell me that you think it is the gorilla or the vicar. “Well, what is it you wished to say?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I was only wondering what we should call this case. The Case of the Country Christmas?”

  He shook his head. “I do not wish to be reminded of Christmas.”

  The train began to slow. “Ah, this is where I change for London.” He began gathering up his belongings.

  If James were allowed to inherit, he would not only shut down the Institute, he would also drink and gamble his way through all the money. And D’Artagnan and Heidi would almost certainly be shipped back to the jungle and the poachers, so it was really a form of self-defense. And even if it was murder, it would be cruel to try them for it when they had no legal standing in the courts.

  And the old man had been little more than an animal in need of putting down. Less human than D’Artagnan and Heidi.

  The train came to a stop, and Touffét opened the door of the compartment.

  “Touffét—” I said.

  “Well, what is it?” he said irritably, his hand on the compartment. “I shall miss my stop.” “Merry Christmas,” I said.

  The conductor called out, and Touffét bustled off toward his train. I watched him from the door of the train, thinking of Lady Charlotte. Finding out the truth, that her beloved primates were far more human than even she had imagined, would kill her. She deserved a little happiness after what her father had done to her. And my sister would be waiting for me at the station. She would have made eggnog.

  I stood there in the door, thinking of what Touffét had said about my being incapable of murder. He was wrong. We are all capable of murder. It’s in our genes.

  NEWSLETTER

  Later examination of weather reports and newspapers showed that it may have started as early as October nineteenth, but the first indication I had that something unusual was going on was at Thanksgiving.

  I went to Mom’s for dinner (as usual), and was feeding cranberries and cut-up oranges into Mom’s old-fashioned meat grinder for the cranberry relish and listening to my sister-in-law Allison talk about her Christmas newsletter (also as usual).

  “Which of Cheyenne’s accomplishments do you think I should write about first, Nan?” she said, spreading cheese on celery sticks. “Her playing lead snowflake in The Nutcracker or her hitting a home run in PeeWee Soccer?”

  “I’d list the Nobel Peace Prize first,” I murmured, under cover of the crunch of an apple being put through the grinder.

  “There just isn’t room to put in all the girls’ accomplishments,” she said, oblivious. “Mitch insists I keep it to one page.”

  “That’s because of Aunt Lydia’s newsletters,” I said. “Eight pages single-spaced.”

  “I know,” she said. “And in that tiny print you can barely read.” She waved a celery stick thoughtfully. “That’s an idea.” “Eight pages single-spaced?”

  “No. I could get the computer to do a smaller font. That way I’d have room for Dakota’s Sunshine Scout merit badges. I got the cutest paper for my newsletters this year. Little angels holding bunches of mistletoe.”

  Christmas newsletters are very big in my family, in case you couldn’t tell. Everybody—uncles, grandparents, second cousins, my sister Sueann—sends the Xeroxed monstrosities to family, coworkers, old friends from high school, and people they met on their cruise to the Caribbean (which they wrote about at length in their newsletter the year before). Even my Aunt Irene, who writes a handwritten letter on every one of her Christmas cards, sticks a newsletter in with it.

  My second cousin Lucille’s are the worst, although there are a lot of contenders. Last year hers started:

  “Another year has hurried past

  And, here I am, asking, ‘Where did the time go so fast?’

  A trip in February, a bladder operation in July,

  Too many activities, not enough time, no matter how hard I try.”

  At least Allison doesn’t put
Dakota and Cheyenne’s accomplishments into verse.

  “I don’t think I’m going to send a Christmas newsletter this year,” I said.

  Allison stopped, cheese-filled knife in hand. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t have any news. I don’t have a new job, I didn’t go on a vacation to the Bahamas, I didn’t win any awards. I don’t have anything to tell.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother said, sweeping in carrying a foil-covered casserole dish. “Of course you do, Nan. What about that skydiving class you took?”

  “That was last year, Mom,” I said. And I had only taken it so I’d have something to write about in my Christmas newsletter.

  “Well, then, tell about your social life. Have you met anybody lately at work?”

  Mom asks me this every Thanksgiving. Also Christmas, the Fourth of July, and every time I see her.

  “There’s nobody to meet,” I said, grinding cranberries. “Nobody new ever gets hired, because nobody ever quits. Everybody who works there’s been there for years. Nobody even gets fired. Bob Hunziger hasn’t been to work on time in eight years, and he’s still there.”

  “What about … what was his name?” Allison said, arranging the celery sticks in a cut-glass dish. “The guy you liked who had just gotten divorced?”

  “Gary,” I said. “He’s still hung up on his ex-wife.”

  “I thought you said she was a real shrew.”

  “She is,” I said. “Marcie the Menace. She calls him twice a week complaining about how unfair the divorce settlement is, even though she got virtually everything. Last week it was the house. She claimed she’d been too upset by the divorce to get the mortgage refinanced and he owed her twenty thousand dollars because now interest rates have gone up. But it doesn’t matter. Gary still keeps hoping they’ll get back together. He almost didn’t fly to Connecticut to his parents’ for Thanksgiving because he thought she might change her mind about a reconciliation.”

  “You could write about Sueann’s new boyfriend,” Mom said, sticking marshmallows on the sweet potatoes. “She’s bringing him today.”

  This was as usual, too. Sueann always brings a new boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner. Last year it was a biker. And no, I don’t mean one of those nice guys who wear a beard and black Harley T-shirt on weekends and work as accountants between trips to Sturgis. I mean a Hell’s Angel.

  My sister Sueann has the worst taste in men of anyone I have ever known. Before the biker, she dated a member of a militia group and, after the ATF arrested him, a bigamist wanted in three states.

  “If this boyfriend spits on the floor, I’m leaving,” Allison said, counting out silverware. “Have you met him?” she asked Mom.

  “No,” Mom said, “but Sueann says he used to work where you do, Nan. So somebody must quit once in a while.”

  I racked my brain, trying to think of any criminal types who’d worked in my company. “What’s his name?”

  “David something,” Mom said, and Cheyenne and Dakota raced into the kitchen, screaming, “Aunt Sueann’s here, Aunt Sueann’s here! Can we eat now?”

  Allison leaned over the sink and pulled the curtains back to look out the window.

  “What does he look like?” I asked, sprinkling sugar on the cranberry relish.

  “Clean-cut,” she said, sounding surprised. “Short blond hair, slacks, white shirt, tie.”

  Oh, no, that meant he was a neo-Nazi. Or married and planning to get a divorce as soon as the kids graduated from college—which would turn out to be in twenty-three years, since he’d just gotten his wife pregnant again.

  “Is he handsome?” I asked, sticking a spoon into the cranberry relish.

  “No,” Allison said, even more surprised. “He’s actually kind of ordinary-looking.”

  I came over to the window to look. He was helping Sueann out of the car. She was dressed up, too, in a dress and a denim slouch hat. “Good heavens,” I said. “It’s David Carrington. He worked up on fifth in Computing.”

  “Was he a womanizer?” Allison asked.

  “No,” I said, bewildered. “He’s a very nice guy. He’s unmarried, he doesn’t drink, and he left to go get a degree in medicine.”

  “Why didn’t you ever meet him?” Mom said.

  David shook hands with Mitch, regaled Cheyenne and Dakota with a knock-knock joke, and told Mom his favorite kind of sweet potatoes were the ones with the marshmallows on top.

  “He must be a serial killer,” I whispered to Allison.

  “Come on, everybody, let’s sit down,” Mom said. “Cheyenne and Dakota, you sit here by Grandma. David, you sit here, next to Sueann. Sueann, take off your hat. You know hats aren’t allowed at the table.”

  “Hats for men aren’t allowed at the table,” Sueann said, patting her denim hat. “Women’s hats are.” She sat down. “Hats are coming back in style, did you know that? Cosmopolitan’s latest issue said this is the Year of the Hat.”

  “I don’t care what it is,” Mom said. “Your father would never have allowed hats at the table.”

  “I’ll take it off if you’ll turn off the TV,” Sueann said, complacently opening out her napkin.

  They had reached an impasse. Mom always has the TV on during meals. “I like to have it on in case something happens,” she said stubbornly.

  “Like what?” Mitch said. “Aliens landing from outer space?”

  “For your information, there was a UFO sighting two weeks ago. It was on CNN.”

  “Everything looks delicious,” David said. “Is that homemade cranberry relish? I love that. My grandmother used to make it.”

  He had to be a serial killer.

  For half an hour, we concentrated on turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole, scalloped corn casserole, marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, cranberry relish, pumpkin pie, and the news on CNN.

  “Can’t you at least turn it down, Mom?” Mitch said. “We can’t even hear to talk.”

  “I want to see the weather in Washington,” Mom said. “For your flight.”

  “You’re leaving tonight?” Sueann said. “But you just got here. I haven’t even seen Cheyenne and Dakota.”

  “Mitch has to fly back tonight,” Allison said. “But the girls and I are staying till Wednesday.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t stay at least until tomorrow,” Mom said.

  “Don’t tell me this is homemade whipped cream on the pumpkin pie,” David said. “I haven’t had homemade whipped cream in years.”

  “You used to work in computers, didn’t you?” I asked him. “There’s a lot of computer crime around these days, isn’t there?”

  “Computers!” Allison said. “I forgot all the awards Cheyenne won at computer camp.” She turned to Mitch. “The newsletter’s going to have to be at least two pages. The girls just have too many awards—T-ball, tadpole swimming, Bible-school attendance.”

  “Do you send Christmas newsletters in your family?” my mother asked David.

  He nodded. “I love hearing from everybody.”

  “You see?” Mom said to me. “People like getting newsletters at Christmas.”

  “I don’t have anything against Christmas newsletters,” I said. “I just don’t think they should be deadly dull. Mary had a root canal, Bootsy seems to be getting over her ringworm, we got new gutters on the house. Why doesn’t anyone ever write about anything interesting in their newsletters?”

  “Like what?” Sueann said.

  “I don’t know. An alligator biting their arm off. A meteor falling on their house. A murder. Something interesting to read.”

  “Probably because they didn’t happen,” Sueann said.

  “Then they should make something up,” I said, “so we don’t have to hear about their trip to Nebraska and their gallbladder operation.”

  “You’d do that?” Allison said, appalled. “You’d make something up?”

  “People make things up in their newsletters all the time, and you know it,” I said. “Look
at the way Aunt Laura and Uncle Phil brag about their vacations and their stock options and their cars. If you’re going to lie, they might as well be lies that are interesting for other people to read.”

  “You have plenty of things to tell without making up lies, Nan,” Mom said reprovingly. “Maybe you should do something like your cousin Celia. She writes her newsletter all year long, day by day,” she explained to David. “Nan, you might have more news than you think if you kept track of it day by day like Celia. She always has a lot to tell.”

  Yes, indeed. Her newsletters were nearly as long as Aunt Lydia’s. They read like a diary, except she wasn’t in junior high, where at least there were pop quizzes and zits and your locker combination to give it a little zing. Celia’s newsletters had no zing whatsoever:

  “Wed. Jan. 1. Froze to death going out to get the paper. Snow got in the plastic bag thing the paper comes in. Editorial section all wet. Had to dry it out on the radiator. Bran flakes for breakfast. Watched Good Morning America.

  “Thurs. Jan. 2. Cleaned closets. Cold and cloudy.”

  “If you’d write a little every day,” Mom said, “you’d be surprised at how much you’d have to tell by Christmas.”

  Sure. With my life, I wouldn’t even have to write it every day. I could do Monday’s right now. “Mon. Nov. 28. Froze to death on the way to work. Bob Hunziger not in yet. Penny putting up Christmas decorations. Solveig told me she’s sure the baby is going to be a boy. Asked me which name I liked, Albuquerque or Dallas. Said hi to Gary, but he was too depressed to talk to me. Thanksgiving reminds him of ex-wife’s giblets. Cold and cloudy.”

  I was wrong. It was snowing, and Solveig’s ultrasound had showed the baby was a girl. “What do you think of Trinidad as a name?” she asked me. Penny wasn’t putting up Christmas decorations either. She was passing out slips of paper with our Secret Santas’ names on them. “The decorations aren’t here yet,” she said excitedly. “I’m getting something special from a farmer upstate.”

  “Does it involve feathers?” I asked her. Last year the decorations had been angels with thousands of chicken feathers glued onto cardboard for their wings. We were still picking them out of our computers.