Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

Nick O’Donohoe has worked as a surveyor, an English teacher and as an operator of a puppet show. He is presently working on his dissertation, in the Humanities Doctoral Program at Syracuse University. He plays the guitar and a poor game of poker and is teaching part-time at Virginia Polytechnic Institute. In addition to his Nathan Phillips-Roy Cartley series of short stories, he has completed two novels and is working on a third. He is very fond of his cat, who is sometimes fond of him.

It was the one day a week I could sleep late-so naturally the phone rang. I muttered, “Go away,” and tried to sleep through it. Nobody would keep trying me forever.

But the phone kept ringing, and suddenly there was a furry black tail swishing back and forth in my face. I sat up and dumped the cat off my chest. “Thanks a bunch, Marlowe.” He sneered. “You my answering service these days?” He stood on the bed, lashing his tail and waiting.

I gave in and picked up the phone. “Cartley and Phillips, home office. And Phillips speaking.”

“Nathan.” It was Cartley’s voice, as rasping as I’ve ever heard it. “Nate, I’ve got my living room blocked off, and I want to keep the kids out. It’s that time of the year, you know.” He was trying to sound lighthearted; I’ve heard lighter pile-drivers.

I’m slow at that hour. “And you want help in the living room, right? Ho-ho-ho! But it’s a whole week before-”

“Can’t say, Nate, there’s an extension phone,” he broke in sharply.

A high-pitched giggle came on the line. “Hi, Uncle Roy! Are you talking to Nathan?”

I got the idea, finally. “Who is this? Amy? Paul?” After two outraged denials I had it easy. “Aw, I knew it was you, Howie. Listen, I’ll be right over. Who said you could listen in on us?”

“I can be a detective, too.”

I tried to sound injured. “Why are you bugging me, Howie? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Not yet.” He was triumphantly confident. I was going to be a crook, and the kids would catch me. That always happened when they visited Uncle Roy before Christmas. I loved it.

I said goodbye and stumbled into the bathroom, where I nearly brushed my teeth with Ben-Gay. After that I drove over. By the time I hit the boulevard around Lake of the Isles I was awake enough to wonder why Roy had wanted me over right now.

At the front door I was surrounded; I knelt to hug Amy and Paul, then twisted my right arm forward just enough to shake hands with Howie. “Hi, Howie. Old enough to know better, yet?”

“Getting older,” he said, trying to look world-weary and not doing badly-for a ten-year-old. “Have you been behaving yourself, Nathan?” he added.

I narrowed my eyes and curled my lip. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” I wasn’t sure what kind of a bad guy to be just yet. “Only person I’ll talk to here is my accomplice.” I stood up and called to Roy, “Merry Christmas, almost. We have plans to make in the living room?”

“Sure.” I looked at him and suddenly knew we weren’t going to wrap presents. He edged through the living-room door, blocking the view with his body; I did the same. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted out over our heads. As I came through, Roy glanced behind me nervously. I shut the door quickly, braced it with the doorstop and turned around.

I spun back around, hung my coat over the doorknob to block the keyhole, then walked quickly over and shut the front curtains. Roy sat down in one of the chairs.

“Good thinking,” he said, and rubbed his face. “God, I haven’t been able to think of a thing.”

“Who is he?” I said. It was all I could think of to say.

“What do you mean, ‘who is he?’ ” Roy said irritably. “Don’t look at his chest; concentrate on his face.”

It was hard. My eyes were drawn to the knife wound. He was up against the chimney, his knees folded under him, his body somehow suspended upright. The flesh on his face was sagging. It made him look weary beyond belief.

Then I pictured the same face, slouched forward in the back seat of a squad car. “Gam Gillis!”

“Right.”

“What’s he doing here? You don’t even have a safe.”

Roy gestured at the fireplace, below the body. “He’s hung on the damper. Look at his jacket. The collar must be hooked in back, and all his weight’s on it. When the collar button pops off, down he’ll go.” Cartley felt his pockets methodically, then drummed his fingers against one knee in frustration. “Nate, you got any cigarettes?”

“Sorry.” For the first time in my life, I wished I smoked. Roy was a wreck. “Want me to go for some?”

“No, I want you to take the kids somewhere while the police are here.”

“When are they coming?” He suddenly looked stricken.

“Jesus, Roy, you forgot to call?”

He wiped at his face, nodding. I picked up the phone and began dialing. “By the way, who do you think put Gillis here?”

“Who else? Petlovich.”

“Oh,” I said-but it was a big “oh”; Roy and I had gotten Gillis to turn state’s evidence on Petlovich two years ago, over a jewelry theft we’d been checking out for an insurance company. “You think Petlovich left Gillis as a message. In other words-” I stopped. I didn’t want any other words.

Just then the police answered. “Give me Lieutenant Pederson, please.” While I waited, I asked Roy, “You gonna tell your wife?”

“Hell, no! Her mother sprained her ankle at just the right time. Maybe this’ll be over before she’s back.”

“What about the kids-can you send them someplace?”

“Not a chance. My brother goes wilderness camping in California. The National Guard couldn’t get hold of him.” He felt his pockets again, automatically.

Just then the phone said, “Homicide. Pederson here.”

“Good to hear you. This is Nathan Phillips. How’s Minneapolis’s second finest?”

He answered levelly, “Phillips, any time you give me your full name and say it’s good to hear me, something’s Up. What’s up?”

I must have been as rattled as Roy. “There’s been a murder at Roy’s house. James Gillis, an ex-con; you can look up his connection with us. Oh, and bring a pack of cigarettes?”

Roy called out “Camels,” just as Pederson said, “Camels, right? Sure thing. Wait a minute, aren’t Jack’s kids Visiting Roy now?”

“Yeah. Can you hurry?”

“You bet.” He added too casually, “Did Roy do it?”

“I…” I turned to look at Roy. “Uh, Roy’s okay,” I said carefully. “No. No, of course not. You’ll see.” I hoped he would. “See you when you get here.” I hung up.

“Thanks, Nate. Now let’s go collect the kids.” He stared at the fireplace. So had I, on and off. We were both watching the collar-button hole stretching.

“Waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I said, “When the bough breaks-”

“Nathan, for Christ’s sake!” He glared, and I kicked myself.

“Sorry.” I edged out the door, and the kids jumped up. I said to them, “There wasn’t anything in there at all. He just wanted a quiet place to yell at me for not taking you guys anywhere. So we’re going sledding, right now.”

They scrambled for their coats. Los Angeles kids don’t get much chance for winter sports. Afterwards, I’d take them to my apartment for lunch, and call Roy from there.

Howie grinned and said, “You gonna crash sleds with opened my mouth and Cartley said, “Sure he will.”

Howie grinned and said, “you gonna crash sleds with me?”

“Nathan will love that.” It was the closest to a grin Cartley had managed all morning.