Skipping Christmas Read Online Free PDF

aside and brought out the paperwork. Not another word was mentioned about Christmas, not in Nora’s presence anyway. Driving away, she phoned Luther with the news of their latest victory.
    Luther was up and down. His secretary, a fifty-year-old triple divorcée named Dox, had quipped that she’d have to buy her own cheap perfume, she supposed, since Santa wasn’t coming this year. He’d been called Scrooge twice, and each time the name had been followed by a fit of laughter. How original, Luther thought.
    Late in the morning, Yank Slader darted into Luther’s office as if angry clients were chasing him. Peeking out first, he closed the door, then assumed a seat. “You’re a genius, old boy,” he said almost in a whisper. Yank was an amortization specialist, afraid of his shadow, loved eighteen-hour days because his wife was a brawler.
    “Of course I am,” said Luther.
    “Went home last night, late, got the wife to bed then did the same thing you did. Crunched the numbers, went through the bank statements, the works, came up with almost seven grand. What was your damage?”
    “Just over six thousand.”
    “Unbelievable, and not a rotten thing to show for it. Makes me sick.”
    “Take a cruise,” Luther said, knowing full well that Yank’s wife would never agree to such foolishness. For her, the holidays began in late October and steadily gathered momentum until the big bang, a ten-hour marathon on Christmas Day with four meals and a packed house.
    “Take a cruise,” Yank mumbled. “Can’t think of anything worse. Socked away on a boat with Abigail for ten days. I’d pitch her overboard.”
    And no one would blame you, Luther thought.
    “Seven thousand bucks,” Yank repeated to himself.
    “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Luther said, and for a moment both accountants silently lamented the waste of hard-earned money.
    “Your first cruise?” Yank asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Never done one myself. Wonder if they have single folks on board?”
    “I’m sure they do. There’s no requirement you have to take a partner. Thinking of going solo, Yank?”
    “Not thinking, Luther, dreaming.” He drifted off, his hollow eyes showing a hint of hope, of fun, of something Luther had never seen before in Yank. He left the room there for a moment, his thoughts running wildly across the Caribbean, so wonderfully alone without Abigail.
    Luther was quiet while his colleague dreamed, but the dreams soon became slightly embarrassing. Fortunately, the phone rang and Yank was jolted back to a harsh world of amortization tables and a quarrelsome wife. He got to his feet and seemed to be leaving without a word. At the door, though, he said, “You’re my hero, Luther.”
    Vic Frohmeyer had heard the rumor from Mr. Scanlon, the scoutmaster, and from his wife’s niece, who roomed with a girl who worked part time for Aubie at The Pumpkin Seed, and from a colleague at the university whose brother got his taxes done by someone at Wiley & Beck. Threedifferent sources, and the rumor had to be true. Krank could do whatever he damned well pleased, but Vic and the rest of Hemlock wouldn’t take it lying down.
    Frohmeyer was the unelected ward boss of Hemlock. His cushy job at the university gave him time to meddle, and his boundless energy kept him on the street organizing all sorts of activities. With six kids, his house was the undisputed hangout. The doors were always open, a game always in progress. As a result, his lawn had a worn look to it, though he worked hard in his flower beds.
    It was Frohmeyer who brought the candidates to Hemlock for barbecues in his backyard, and for their campaign pledges. It was Frohmeyer who circulated the petitions, knocking door to door, gathering momentum against annexation or in favor of school bonds or against a new four-lane miles away or in favor of a new sewer system. It was Frohmeyer who called Sanitation when a neighbor’s garbage was not picked up, and because it was Frohmeyer the matter got