Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

“Mr. Schlag told her that if she’d sign a confession the store wouldn’t prosecute. Well, she signed it, crying. Then he called the police. She’s in jail right now-at Christmastime! Her case comes up Monday-”

“And they’ll throw the book at her,” said Johnny slowly.

Joyce nodded. “Oh, that Mr. Schlag! There just isn’t anything bad enough that could happen to him!”

Mrs. Whistler smiled slightly. “Oh, I’m sure there is, my dear!”

Joyce turned to Johnny. “You’re a lawyer. What can be done about it?”

“Nothing.”

“But, Johnny,” she protested, “surely you can do something!”

“I don’t see what. I suppose I could appear in court for her on Monday. But it wouldn’t do any good. The sentencing is going to be routine. You’d just better forget the whole thing, Joyce.”

“Forget it? I can’t forget it!”

“Someone,” said Mrs. Whistler, “should take action.”

“They certainly should,” agreed Joyce.

Johnny was suddenly aware that both women were staring at him expectantly. There was a dreadful silence in the room. He had never seen Joyce so angry or so determined.

“Hold on, you two! What can I do about it? I’m just a guy who draws wills and sets up escrows. There just isn’t any use in getting mixed up in something that can’t-” Johnny’s voice trailed off when he saw the expression on Joyce’s face.

Mrs. Whistler glanced at the tiny watch pinned to her dress. “My goodness! If you young people will excuse me-” She took a step toward the guest room.

Johnny saw the gleam in her eye. He was on his feet in an instant. “Mother! You’re planning something!”

Mrs. Whistler smiled at Joyce. “Johnny’s always so worried about me. Isn’t that sweet? Good night, dears.” Mrs. Whistler closed her door behind her.

Johnny turned to Joyce accusingly. “You’ve set her off! I can tell by the look in her eye!”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“You don’t know her!” Johnny paced the floor. “Last year she took on Mr. Moses and the whole New York Park Department-singlehanded! Six months ago it was Internal Revenue!”

“Johnny Creighton, stop shouting at me! It isn’t my fault.”

“Oh, yes, it is! You got her started with this Mrs. Blainey story. It’s made to order for her-invalid husband, four kids, even an overdue mortgage payment! It’s right out of Charles Dickens. And tomorrow, you can bet, she’ll try to do something to MacTavish’s!”

Joyce stood up quickly. “Well, I’m glad somebody in your family has a little spunk! If she can teach MacTavish’s a lesson, more power to her!” Joyce looked at him coldly. “Johnny Creighton, you’re a stick-in-the-mud! So cautious it’s plain dull! You’re supposed to be an attorney, but-”

“What do you want? Perry Mason?”

Joyce gave him her coolest secretarial smile. “Perry Mason is a very attractive guy. Good night, Johnny!”

“Stick-in-the-mud!” he repeated softly. Slowly a grim expression came over Johnny’s pleasant face. “Mother,” he called. “Are you awake?”

Mrs. Whistler’s door opened instantly. “Yes, dear.”

Johnny’s voice was stiff with determination. “We’ve got some planning to do.”

“Planning?” Mrs. Whistler blinked at him. “Oh, darling, I’ve already done that.”

At six o’clock Saturday morning Mrs. Whistler bounced out of bed. Three times she stretched, bent, pressed her palms flat on the floor. Thirty minutes later she stood over the stove, dreamily preparing scrambled eggs for Johnny while she examined a full page ad that pictured items on sale at MacTavish’s. Her son, still in pajamas, sat at the breakfast bar, his face a mask of stony heroism. He was convinced his mother’s fantastic scheme would fail, but he was determined to go down fighting.

Mrs. Whistler pointed to a small item in the MacTavish ad. “One of these would do nicely,” she said. Johnny looked doubtful but nodded bravely. “If we can only think of some way to handle the last part!” Suddenly Mrs. Whistler smiled happily. “Santa Claus!” she exclaimed. “You’ll be Santa Claus!”

“Mother! No!”

“Johnny, dear.” Mrs. Whistler’s tone was stern. “Please don’t be stubborn.”

“I’ll go along with the rest of it, but I won’t be Santa Claus!”

Mrs. Whistler sighed. “Very well, darling.” She stirred the eggs thoughtfully. “Now, we’ll rent a nice red suit, and with whiskers no one will recognize you, and-”

Johnny groaned and surrendered.

At 8:15, as Joyce Gifford was leaving for her last day at MacTavish’s, her telephone rang.

“Good morning, Joyce, dear. This is Mrs. Whistler.”

“Why, good morning.”

“Joyce, I have a dreadful premonition that disaster is about to overtake poor Mr. Schlag. If you happen to see me later today-and you will-please don’t recognize me.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t try, dear. Just don’t recognize me. Or Johnny, either.”

“Johnny? You don’t mean that Johnny’s actually going to-”

Mrs. Whistler chuckled. “Still waters run deep. Goodbye, my dear. See you later.”

At the height of the noon rush hour, Traffic Officer “Spud” Battersby trembled in the middle of a terrifying intersection, blowing a whistle, waving his arms, and narrowly avoiding death at every second. Suddenly Officer Battersby’s whistle nearly fell out of his mouth. A prim elderly lady carrying a straw shopping bag was calmly coming toward him, oblivious of the screaming brakes and blaring horns.

“My God!” he shouted. “Get back! You’ll be run over!”

A truck screeched to a halt six inches from the old lady. “Officer,” she said, “I want to report a crime.”

Battersby snatched her from the path of an oncoming cab. They huddled in the middle of the street. “You want to be killed?”

“Killed? Oh, no. No one’s been killed. But my purse was snatched not ten minutes ago.”

“Get out of here! Call the police station!” A red light changed and a wheeled onslaught avalanched by.

“My,” said the old lady, “you are busy, aren’t you?” She gave him a slip of paper. “If my purse is found, here’s my name and phone number.”

“Lady, please … Look out for that truck!”

“Merry Christmas, Officer!” Battersby shoved the paper into his pocket and managed to halt a hundred racing vehicles while the old lady made her unhurried way to the curb.

“Another nut!” he said. “A one-hundred-percent Los Angeles nut!”

At 12:45 Mrs. Whistler hesitated at the costume jewelry counter in MacTavish’s, smiling at Miss Hefron. the harassed and yule-weary salesgirl. “Everything’s lovely! I simply have to see every piece!”

Dear Lord, no! Miss Hefron thought. “Our pleasure, Ma’am,” she said brightly.

“Look at all these pretty things!” A velvet-lined tray stood open on the counter.

“They’re horoscope brooches, Ma’am. An advertised special. We still have Virgo and Capricorn and-”

“Capricorn? Of course! I bought one of those for-”

Mrs. Whistler stopped speaking. Her eyes rolled wildly as she grasped the counter for support. With a crash the tray of costume jewelry fell to the floor, and Mrs. Whistler collapsed on top of it. Before Miss Hefron could reach the stricken customer, Mrs. Whistler had miraculously recovered. Struggling to her feet, she replaced the tray awkwardly.

Mrs. Whistler’s eyelids fluttered. “I’ve just been on my feet too long-a little dizzy spell. No more shopping today!”

Slowly Mrs. Whistler made her way toward the doors of the store, clutching her straw shopping bag firmly. For a dreadful moment she believed nothing was going to happen to her; then her spirits soared as a strong hand gripped her elbow. An ash-blond woman with a flashing gold tooth was beside her.