Jenna Ryan: Mistletoe and Murder

“If you can, you’ve got Superman’s vision.”

“What I have is an excellent memory. ‘I send you a Christmas greeting, Romana Grey,’” she quoted. “‘A kiss for you, for the murderer you saved. It is the Kiss of Death.’ Nice, huh?” She bumped his tire with the heel of her boot. “There’s a sprig of mistletoe on the front. Can’t imagine what he came up with for you. It’s a mass-marketed card. I checked it out first thing. They’re sold all over the country, same as the other five he sent, except this time I have a creepy feeling Critch delivered it himself.”

“Delivered it where?”

“Into my purse. Don’t say it,” she warned at his sharp look. “You shop in crowded stores, you get jostled. You open your purse for credit cards, parking money, donation drums.”

“Hands slip inside, remove wallets.”

“We’re talking about something that was added not subtracted.”

“You were a cop, Romana.”

“And now I teach criminology. Fine, I should have noticed, but, ah, well, I didn’t. I’m human, Jacob. Move forward.”

Not the faintest flicker of annoyance marred her pleasant expression, and her tone was equally unruffled.

She could act, all right. She was also stubborn. And bold as hell.

“I’ll check my mailbox.” He handed the card back. “Obviously you know Critch has been out on parole for the past two days.”

“Mmm. Lovely thought, isn’t it? Although I’ve also been told he mellowed substantially after the first few years inside, so much so that he wrote a novelette about his childhood in South America. His daddy mapped waterways along the Amazon. My guess is he did a lot more than that, but then I’m jaded from my brief stint on the force.” She nodded forward. “Your mailbox is at the front door, right?”

His lips twitched into a smile. “Are you curious to see if my threat’s nastier than yours?”

“Not especially. I’m thinking your lobby has to be warmer than this alley. Plus I love old theaters.” She scanned the worn brick facade, relaxed a little more. “My father’s a huge fan of 1920s architecture. He knows the woman who owns this place. Her husband made her promise not to sell the building or allow it to be demolished after he died. I think he planned to haunt it-don’t know if that worked out for him or not- but she kept her word, which is why you and three other people get to live here. She left the stage, audience area and lobby intact and still found a way to make the place pay its own taxes. End of local history lesson.” She moved past him to the rear door. “Why are you staring at me, Jacob? Teachers lecture out of habit. I could tell you all sorts of things about the house my parents bought in Boston.”

His stare became a headshake. “Do you ever run down?”

“Depends on the company. My cousin Fitz says I don’t talk enough.”

“Would that be Irish-born Anna Fitzgerald with the curly red hair, who insists that unpaid-for shop items simply follow her home?”

Romana grinned. “Followed. Past tense, Detective. She’s my second cousin on my mother’s side, I’ve known her forever and, all bias aside, I think she’s one of the brightest forensic techs in the city. The hospital board was right to give her another chance.”

“You must have talked long and hard to that board, Romana. Second chances are hard to come by in that arena.”

She waited while he opened the rear door, then, with a glance at his profile, preceded him inside. “It’s going to start again, you know.”

“I know.”

“All the gossip and the rumors, the speculation, the accusations.”

“I’ve been through it before, Romana. I know how it’ll be.”

“Unless Critch is grandstanding, which is possible given his psychiatric evaluation before the trial. He’s a brooder, but he tends to back down in the face of fear.”

“Which makes his latest Christmas message to you, what? A slap intended to unnerve? He’s sent you six cards, one for each of the six years he spent in prison. And this last one was delivered less than forty-eight hours after his release.”

“You’re determined to be pessimistic, aren’t you? Why don’t you… Oh, my God, is that fresco original?” Captivated by the dark heavenly forces clashing overhead, she swung on her heel. Then she frowned, paused and sniffed. “Who’s using alkyd paint?”

“Keep moving,” he suggested. “Why don’t I what?”

“Hmm? Oh, try and keep a positive thought.” Still absorbed, she executed another admiring circle. “Words aren’t weapons in this case, and I find it hard to believe that Critch will want to spend the rest of his life behind bars for killing us. It won’t bring his wife back, and if he’s smart, which I think he is, he’ll have realized by now that our lives-and yours in particular-haven’t been fairy-tale perfect since she died.”

Jacob studied her through narrowed eyes. With her guard down and enchanted by her surroundings, he could visualize her quite easily in a storybook setting. Somewhere snowy and nostalgic. Not a princess in a tower-she was too savvy for that role-but in one of those places he’d dreamed of as a kid, before reality had stumbled in and revealed the harsh realities of life.

Speaking of which… “How do you know what my life’s like? You left the force years ago.”

She wrested her gaze from the ornate overhead carvings and directed it at him. “I know you switched to the night shift after Critch’s trial. You prefer to work alone. Your record’s outstanding, but you don’t interact with your fellow officers any more than necessary. You keep to yourself on and off the clock, which includes hardly even talking to your best friend, O’Keefe. And word has it you’re the only male cop in the city who hasn’t flirted with the pretty new dispatcher.”

“I talked to O’Keefe twenty minutes ago. I’d say he’s still in major lust with you.”

She shrugged, unperturbed. “Mick O’Keefe is a nice guy who happens to be divorced. He likes European cooking-my great grandmother’s from Moscow-film noire and helping out with minor home renos for people who would otherwise be in over their heads. There’s no lust involved, and even if there was-” she gave his chest a poke “-it wouldn’t be any of your business. FYI, Knight, there’s a woman wearing a pink ball cap and holding a paintbrush waving at you.”

“Later, Denny.” He reached past Romana to open the front door. “After you, Professor.”

“Don’t be snotty.” But she went first and peered through the metal slats of the box. “I see something red in there. Want me to pull it out?”

He handed her the key.

A moment later, she was turning the red envelope, a twin to the one she’d received, over in her hands. “No stamp,” she remarked. “Probably water-sealed like the others, so I imagine DNA’s out. Barely legible scrawl on the back, same mistletoe on the front and-oh, well, but a much more succinct message than mine inside.”

Holding the Christmas card open with her gloved fingertips, she turned it so he could read the five words printed there in bold, bleeding red.

YOU DIE NEXT, JACOB KNIGHT!

“Be grateful he didn’t send you a kiss,” Romana said thirty minutes later. She ran her gaze over the face of a building that was as close to a safety hazard as city bylaws permitted. Tilting her head, she read the sign. “Taft House. I hope it wasn’t named for President Taft.”

“Aaron Taft.” Jacob angled his vehicle into a No Parking zone and cut the engine. “Aaron was a rich man with a wayward son. He believed the Y chromosome was responsible for all criminal tendencies.” At Romana’s skeptical sideways look, he reached over to tug up the zipper of her white coat. “Taft was born in 1871 and maintained the unshakeable belief that women were incapable of committing crimes. This house is strictly for men. Don’t expect pretty.”