you said about those headlines, every year, two, or three. This guy really was an idiot.â
âOr a genius,â said the sergeant.
The detective stopped writing. âWhat are you talking about? . . . Wait a minute. You said âtheyâ were deep-frying. I thought there was only one body.â
The sergeant held up an evidence bag. Melted nylon cord. âOur friend was hog-tied. He had some help in there with the basting.â
âYou mean this was a murder? But what kind of sickââ
A uniformed officer trotted over, finishing a conversation on his walkie-talkie. âSir, we just got a report from the VFW hall. Someone returned those stolen plaques.â
âGreat,â said the sergeant. âBut whatâs that got to do with this?â
âThey left a note. An apology. Maybe not, I donât know. But there was a driverâs license, and the address of this motel room. We might have just IDâd the victim.â
The sergeant glanced sideways at the detective. âScore one for the good guys.â
The detective stuck his notebook back in his jacket. âSend me the case report. Iâll make sure it gets filed under a very tall stack of papers.â
Chapter Three
THREE WEEKS LATER
Christmas songs. A line of small children waiting to see Santa. Others sitting on a foam mat watching a puppet show.
âThis new mallâs unbelievable,â said Jim Davenport, walking past the Gap. âLook at the ice-skating rink.â
âI hate this time of year,â said Martha Davenport.
âBut look at all the kids having fun.â
âWe had to park a mile away, not to mention the insane traffic on the way over.â
âMartha, itâs the holidays.â They continued along the upper level past kiosks for cell phones and sunglasses.
âWouldnât be so bad if I didnât have to shop for your mother. She returns everything, you know.â
âNot everything.â
âYouâre right. She prominently displays anything you get her. Thatâs an attack on me.â
A group of gleeful children with colorful balloons ran by shrieking.
âMartha, youâre letting her get under your skin.â
âIâm dreading this next visit.â
âBut we have to visit,â said Jim. âItâs Christmas.â
âGod, that last visit. Can you believe what Nicole said?â
âBecause she sees how my mom gets to you.â
âThat makes it okay? Like itâs sport to her?â
âNo, it was terrible,â said Jim. âI grounded her, remember?â
âLot of good that did. She just kept going out. Youâre not firm enough with her. And now she wants a tattoo!â
âIâll sit down and talk to her.â
âBe firm this time.â
They went into the Apple store. The balloon kids shrieked by the entrance, followed by two elves, one tall and thin with ice-blue eyes, the other short and pudgy with a round, non-intellectual-looking head.
âSerge,â said Coleman. âAre we shopping?â
âNo, I just love coming to the mall at Christmas, digging how stores tap into the whole holiday spirit, especially the bookstores with their special bargain displays.â
âDisplays?â asked Coleman.
âBig ones near the front,â said Serge. âIf you want to show someone you put absolutely zero thought into their gift, you buy a giant picture book about steam locomotives, ceramic thimbles, or Scotland.â
âBut why are we wearing elf suits?â
âTo spread good cheer.â
âWhat for?â
âBecause of the War on Christmas.â
âWho started the war?â asked Coleman.
âIronically, the very people who coined the term and claim others started the war. Theyâre upset that people of different faiths, along with the coexistence crowd who respect those faiths, are saying âSeasonâs Greetingsâ
John B. Garvey, Mary Lou Widmer